


Year One

by Omgpieplease (SceneryTurnedWicked), palateens



Series: Ace Off [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anxiety Attacks, Background Character Death, Backstory, Bad Parenting, Coming of Age, Depression, Dysfunctional Relationships, Family Drama, Gen, Gender Identity, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Underage Relationship(s), Indian Character, Internalized Transphobia, Jack Zimmermann's Overdose, Latino Character, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Motorcycles, Non-Sexual Bondage, Nonbinary Character, Tattoos, Team as Family, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-26 15:31:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12061878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SceneryTurnedWicked/pseuds/Omgpieplease, https://archiveofourown.org/users/palateens/pseuds/palateens
Summary: June 2009Kent Vicente Vasquez Parson goes to the draft alone.





	1. Summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you have any questions about the warnings, feel free to shoot us a [message on tumblr](https://ace-off.tumblr.com/)

June 2009

Kent Vicente Vasquez Parson goes to the draft alone. He was expecting to be there with his best friend and the couple who’d taken on the role of pseudo parents over the last few years. But things came up. Life smacked him like a cement truck hitting an armadillo on a highway. 

He sits quietly in the prospect bleachers with his cheap suit and Zimms’ blue tie. They’d coordinated outfits a few days before. Zimms had let him borrow this tie because it matched his eyes, and Kent’s lime green tie was the only one that hadn’t been ruined at some party or event over the years. Not that Kent had many to begin with.  

Kent wrings his hands tightly, trying not to look at his phone. Zimms was still knocked out cold when his parents shoved Kent out the door and told him to go. 

“Jack would want you to be there,” Alicia assured him. 

The edges of his face are pins and needles. He wonders if this is what an anxiety attack feels like. He wonders if when Jack wakes up, they’ll tell him the whole story. If they’ll talk about how Kent found him motionless on his bathroom floor. Maybe they won’t, maybe they’ll just whisper apologies and hope everything will work out. 

Someday. 

The Las Vegas Aces had the worst record in the league the last season, so they go first. The head coach, Ernie Price, is an unimpressive looking man. Kent doesn’t know a lot about him except that he used to work for a pretty successful farm team. He hadn’t gotten as far as the playoffs yet, though. It was anyone’s guess why the Aces kept him on. 

Ernie approaches the podium. “The Las Vegas Aces are so proud to select—”

Kent’s breath hitches. This is it. 

“From the Quebec Major Junior Hockey League’s Rimouski Océanic—”

He expects Price to say Jack Zimmermann. 

“—Kent Parson.”   

Kent chokes back a sob. This isn’t his spot. This isn’t his night. It’s Jack’s. It was always supposed to be Jack’s. Regardless, Alicia told him to do this. So he rises from his seat. He stiffly heads down to the stage. He wonders if everyone can see that he’s on the verge of crying, or puking, or both.  

Price and the GM, Carl something or other, shake his hand. He pulls the Aces’ white jersey over his head. Press snaps a few photos of him. He grins so hard that he feels the muscles in his face splitting in half. Just as well, he thinks. 

Kent gets ushered over to do some interviews. Every atom in his body is screaming for him to leave, to pack up and go back to that hospital. That’s where he’s needed. He doesn’t because he’s officially on the clock. He tells himself that this is practice. If he can get through the worst 24 hours of his life with everyone staring at him and expecting him to smile graciously, maybe he has a shot. It’s just one day. That’s all he needs to get through. 

He sticks around until the late hours of the draft because he has nowhere to go. He can’t afford a hotel room, and the Zimmermanns won’t be going home anytime soon. Not that he wants to go back there. Some small part of him hopes they are as scarred as he was. That they sell that house and move somewhere new. Somewhere he’s never had to watch his best friend die. 

He eventually finds a 24 hour diner not too far away that’s covering the draft. Kent watches there like a regular nobody. He tries to savor his fleeting anonymity. 

Round two, the Aces traded for an extra draft pick. 

At some point he hears Price say, “I’m extremely excited to select, from the Saginaw Spirit, Jeff Troy.”

Later, he hears, “The Las Vegas Aces are so pleased to select, from the Eerie Otters, Mateo Perez.” 

He’s had too much coffee and not enough food by the time the sun’s up. “The Las Vegas Aces are proud to select, from the Ontario Hockey League’s London Knights, Nathan Chopra.” 

Kent memorizes those names like chants. Who knows if they’ll get cut, or if they’ll even have much ice time this year. But it gives him something to focus on. 

He thinks he’ll buy an iPhone with his signing bonus. But who knows how fucked that contract will leave him in the end. 

After all, Bad Bob was supposed to be there when he signed it. Kent isn’t sure what the rest of the summer will bring. But he hopes it’s better than this. 

_/.\\_ 

Jeffery Charles Troy doesn’t have a lot of shit to move to Vegas. He asks to billet with a veteran because that was another thing he didn’t want to worry about. He has two suitcases that hold his entire life and a Honda Accord that’s nearly as old as he is. 

He tries for two days to get his parents’ attention long enough to explain to them that he’s moving. For all they told him about “following his passion” and “diversifying his interests”, they don’t seem to believe he’s officially a professional hockey player—almost.  

Finally, Jeff gives up, loads his car, and heads west. He spends the night at a rest stop in Illinois. The next day, he splurges on a hotel in Denver. The drive is long but beautiful. He cranks his Springsteen playlist up as loud as possible. Jeff keeps the window down and lets his arm dangle out the side as he winds through the Rockies. 

He plays the album  _ Rumors  _ by Fleetwood Mac on repeat. It’s quiet and subdued as the clouds roll over the peaks of the mountains. Jeff has a lot of time to himself on this trip. He thinks about how he’ll need to get accustomed to new teammates and new lineys. Kent Parson went first in the draft, which surprised everyone. Jeff had been expecting to see Jack Zimmermann in that spot, maybe be his winger someday. Fortunately, Kent’s a left winger and Jeff’s a right. They won’t have to fight for the same spot. 

Who knows? Maybe they’ll be friends. Maybe they’ll never play a single game together. Only time would tell. 

Utah is dull and dreary. Jeff blasts Jackson Browne and John Mellencamp to distract himself from how boring it is. An epiphany strikes two hours from Vegas as “Small Town” plays. He did it. He actually got out of Jersey. Sure, Princeton was nothing to balk at. But he wasn’t cut out to be a professor like his parents. He would’ve been lucky to finish college. 

Not that it matters right now. When he’s thirty and thinking about retirement, then he’ll figure out how to be an adult. 

He gets to Vegas around six pm. Traffic takes forever, so he’s exhausted by the time he pulls up to defenseman Calvin West’s house. Jeff’s seen this guy play a few times. He’s burly and efficient. West is the kind of guy that you’d trust your goalie to and never want to cross, ruthless against any forward. Jeff’s heard a chirp or two from commentators saying that ironically, West is the calmest redhead they’ve ever seen.

West’s house is a fairly standard suburban home with white stucco and a red tile roof. It looks just like any other house on this block, aside from the Canadian flag waving proudly on the front porch. 

Jeff decides to grab his overnight bag and leave the other bags for later. He rings the doorbell once, waiting a minute before he tries again. Instead of seeing a burly, six foot four redhead with a thick beard, the door is opened by a five foot ten blond kid his age. 

This must be Parson, his mind supplies. 

“Hey,” Parson says. “Troy, right?”

“Yeah,” he answers. “Parson?”

Parson nods. “Or Parse or Kent or...whatever. C’mon in.” He steps out of the way so Jeff can enter. The house looks more modern and impressive from the inside. The appliances look like they cost more than what his parents make in three months, combined. 

“So, West’s grilling burgers out back,” Parse says behind him. 

Jeff turns to look at him. Parse is nothing like what he expected. He looks tiny in the Rimouski sweatshirt he’s wearing. It brings out the grey flecks of his... green eyes, Jeff concludes. Only, when Parse leads him to the back deck, his eyes shift to some warm hazel. It’s like they can’t stay one color. Jeff thinks briefly of his mother’s best friend, an English professor who was obsessed with expat authors. He wonders what Hemingway would think of eyes that refused to be defined. 

West greets Jeff warmly with a handshake, a smile. 

“Thanks for having me,” Jeff says politely. “I really appreciate it.”

“Yeah, for sure,” West assures him. “Homes are meant to be filled with people. I had a few spare rooms.” 

Jeff quirks his lips, bemused. “Yeah, I hear ya. I haven’t had that in a while. So this’ll be nice.” 

West nods sympathetically. He flips two patties on the grill. “During the season, there’ll be more people around.” 

“Cool,” Jeff says. “Is that because you’re captain?”

West chuckles, “Nah, that’s why I am captain.” 

Jeff gives him a blank stare. 

“He’s saying he does shit for the team, and that’s why they put him in charge,” Parse cuts in. “Y’know, some are born great, some have greatness thrust upon them?” 

Jeff crinkles his nose. “That isn’t how it goes.”

“Yeah?” Parse snorts. “When’s the last time you saw someone achieve greatness?” 

He wants to argue that’s rich coming from the guy who went first in the draft. But West cuts in with some anecdote about his first time ice fishing in Alaska, and the subject is dropped. He watches Parse out of the corner of his eye for the rest of the night. Sometimes he’ll give a pithy remark. Most of the time, he stays quiet. 

Jeff finds him around midnight watching  _ Pretty Woman  _ in the living room. Parse is wrapped up in a blanket, mostly staring at his iphone. He’s staring at a blank text conversation. 

“I didn’t take you for a chick flick kind of guy,” he announces his presence. 

Parse’s shoulders tense. He looks over his shoulder, glaring half heartedly at Jeff. 

“First of all,” Parse says, snapping his eyes back to the TV, “misogynist much? These aren’t just for chicks. They’re fucking romantic comedies.” 

Jeff quirks a brow as he plops next to him on the couch. 

“Second—” Parse continues. He stops himself, sighing. “Alicia’s like—one of my favorite people ever. It’s comforting and shit.” 

“Alicia…” Jeff prompts.

“Oh my god,” Parse squawks, staring at him incredulously. “Alicia fucking Zimmermann, she’s like—only the greatest rom com star of the 90s.” 

“I thought that was Meg Ryan,” he finds himself chirping. 

Parse balks. “I thought you said these were chick flicks.” 

He shrugs. “My aunt’s a sucker for a good love story.” 

Kent smiles for the first time since Jeff got there. “You seen this one before?” 

“Never,” Jeff lies. Because Kent is throwing him a lifeline, a reason to keep talking. 

They rewind the movie and start from the beginning. It’s a good thing Jeff’s actually seen it, or else he’d miss everything over the constant commentary from Kent about stories Alicia’s told him about filming. Apparently she Jack’s mom. Apparently she’s like a mom to him, even if his real mom is waiting back in New York. 

Halfway through the film, Kent’s phone rings.

“I gotta take this,” he says as he bolts to the backyard. 

Jeff decides to pause. Kent doesn’t shut the glass door all the way, and in the silence, Jeff can make out some pleading and shouting.

Kent doesn’t return for another hour. When he does, his eyes are grey and lifeless. He sits on the other side of the couch with his knees to his chest. He presses play and doesn’t say another word. Jeff doesn’t know how to proceed, so he doesn’t. He’s eighteen, what does he know about emotional maturity? 

At some point, Kent scoots over. Jeff doesn’t know why, but he wraps an arm around Kent’s shoulder. They sit there in companionable silence.          

Jeff’s known Kent for all of five hours. But something about how he won’t look at the screen, at Alicia’s face, tells him more than he needs to know. 

He gets missing people. It’s sort of his speciality. 

_/.\\_ 

July 2008

Jeff’s seventeen. He’s got some free time before he has to be back in Michigan. His parents are indisposed this summer—again. So this time, instead of his parents shipping him off to his Aunt Trish and Uncle Josh’s place, Jeff just goes himself. Ocean City has been his summer home every year since he was eight, since his care became secondary to his parents’ work. 

Trish hugs him as tightly as she can. She’s five two and weighs about the same as he does. She’s a brunette and she cackles when she laughs too hard. Trish is warm,unapologetic, and the first person to own up to her faults. She’s everything her older sister Natalie isn’t. Jeff wishes she was his mom more often than not. 

“How’re you doin’, baby?” Trish asks a few days before 4th of July. 

He already ran five miles this morning. He could go to the beach, but it’s probably too crowded at the moment. So he puts on  _ While You Were Sleeping _ , hoping it would pull her away from the novel she’s writing. Trish started writing teen books a few years back. They were mainly romance and drama, so they weren’t something he’d read if he didn’t love his aunt with all his heart. 

Jeff shrugs. “Just thinking.”

“‘Bout what?”

“You think if the Devils draft me, they’d come to my games?”

Trish tsks, bustling across the room to hug him. He wraps his arms around her waist, feeling safe against her. Jeff wonders if there’s some world where his parents gave him to Trish and Josh permanently. Maybe he wouldn’t think so hard about gaining their attention. 

“Don’t mind them,” Trish says eventually as she smooths his hair tenderly. “Your mama’s still reeling from the Fields Medal she won last year.”

“And Dad?” he mutters bitterly. 

“I always thought that Pulitzer inflated his head three sizes,” she chirps. “They’ll come around, baby. It might take them longer than you want. But they’re your parents. They love you.” 

Jeff nods to get her to stop. He knows Trish means well. But she’d sooner throw herself out of a window than admit she’s been raising him all this time. 

Why? He doesn’t think he’ll ever understand. 

“Just shoot for the stars, baby,” she says, kissing his head. “You’re already miles above this place. Don’t get stuck in Jersey because you think it’ll make them happy. You’ll always be enough, more than enough.” 

_/.\\_ 

July 2009

Jeff calls Trish after Kent goes to bed. 

“Jeffery Charles Troy,” she stammers. “This better be good—”

“Hi,” his voice cracks. Even if she can’t see, he blushes from how weak he must sound. 

“Hi, baby,” she says softly. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” he lies. 

He can hear her tsk. He laughs wetly at thought of her shaking her head, grabbing her bathrobe, and heading to the back porch. He does the same, sitting down at the edge of West’s pool. It feels right, symmetrical. 

“C’mon, tell me everything,” she beckons after a minute or two. 

“I don’t know,” Jeff starts. “My new teammate had someone that was like a mom to him. I guess something happened.”

“Baby,” she sighs. “Y’know, we could’ve talked about this before you left.”

“I know,” Jeff admits. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, just tell me how Vegas is. How about you fly me out as soon as you can manage, and I’ll make you all the french toast you want?”

“I have a meal plan, y’know,” he points out.

“And what do I always say?” her voice is light and mischievous.

“Fuck the meal plan,” they say together.  

She tells him a few stories about how her garden’s doing and about how Josh is up for a promotion at work. He listens to her try to explain what happened with Mrs. Anderson’s  hydrangeas.

“We both need some shut eye, alright?” Trish says after an hour. 

“Ok,” Jeff agrees, trying not to tear up. 

“Night, baby, I love you,” she tells him. 

“Night...Mom.” He hangs up, scrubbing his face furiously. 

He’s not ready to deal with this. He wasn’t three months ago, and he’s nowhere closer now. 

_/.\\_ 

Nathan Amar Chopra shows up to the first day of prospect camp with a fresh tattoo down his spine. It took a few hours and some pain, but now he has the entire solar system going down his back. Heavenly bodies, he remembers his sister Nehal calling them when they were younger. She loved astronomy. 

He follows the assistant GM’s instructions to the locker, swapping his glasses for contacts first. Nathan plugs his earbuds into his new phone, playing Transit, muttering “we will not go down without a fight” under his breath. He doesn’t think too hard about what happens if he tanks this week. That’s not an option. He’s not going to uni. That’s not the life for him. 

His eyes flicker up when someone sits down next to him. This other guy is golden brown, not much lighter than Nathan. His flow is shoulder length and dangles in front of his face perfectly. The guy stops putting his pads on, assessing Nathan briefly. He nods passively in greeting. 

“Mateo,” the guy introduces himself.

“Nathan,” he responds. “Defense.” 

“No way,” Mateo grins amicably. “What do you shoot?”

“Right,” Nathan says. “You?”

Mateo laughs. “Left. Hey, maybe we’ll be partners.” 

“Not sure it works like that,” he argues.

“Doesn’t it?” Mateo counters. “Anyway, I’m excited. You’re here. I’m not the only Mexican aqui. This should be fun.” 

“Ac—” Nathan fumbles over the word. “You did that on purpose.” 

Mateo smirks innocently. “We’re in Vegas, mi rey. Might as well get used to my gratuitous use of Spanish.”  

“Should I expect that from every American?” Nathan asks as he pulls his jersey over his head. 

“Just the obnoxious ones,” someone across the room shouts.

“So all of you,” he chirps. 

“Hey,” gripes a guy wearing a backward Mets cap. 

The short blond next to him pats his arm sympathetically. He’s already fully dressed. “It’s not your fault you learned French, Jeff.” 

Jeff rolls his eyes. “Any other team, I’d be useful.” 

“So.” The blond redirects his attention to Nathan. “No one can come up with a better nickname for me than Parse. And Mateo here says he went by Perry back in Eerie. You got a nickname already, Nathan?” 

Nathan had been dreading this moment. “Nope,” he says with practiced neutrality. “Not really.” 

Mateo...Perry, laughs next to him. 

“That bad?” Perry asks. 

“You have no idea,” Nathan mutters. 

“That’s cool,” Parse says casually. “We’ll find something.” 

“You still haven’t figured out something for me,” Jeff protests.

“Oh I will,” he says. “As soon as I figure out where I’ve seen you before.” 

“Uh huh,” Jeff shakes his head as he heads out of the locker room. 

Parse follows after him, and some of the other guys trickle through. Nathan puts his other earbud in, shutting everything but his music out. He skips around his playlist until he finds something to calm his nerves. He feels someone poking his shoulder. When Nathan opens his eyes, Perry’s tilting his head. 

“You ready?” Perry asks. 

“As I’ll ever be,” Nathan admits. “So not really.”

Perry smirks, and Nathan thinks he could get used to this view. 

“Come on.” Perry offers his hand to get up. “Let’s show these fuckers who’s boss.” 

They skate a few warm-up laps before drills start. He and Perry get into a good rhythm fast. The assistant coach switches around the rosters for the week to make them lineys. Nathan takes it as a good sign. He feels Perry next to him like an anchor keeping him from getting washed away in all this newness. 

He handles the puck like a pro, because that’s what he is now. He skates circles around a few of the college guys, and it fills him with more pride than he’d like to admit. Jeff Troy is decent. His hands are soft and his moves are calculated. Kent Parson, on the other hand, is a firecracker. He skates faster than anyone else on the ice. He weaves through players like he’s breezing through the open air. 

Troy’s too restrained and Parson’s too volatile. They each score once on Perry and Nathan. He can only imagine what they’d be like if they could figure out how to play together. For now, however, Nathan’s proving his worth and having fun doing it. By the end of the day, he and Perry have each other’s movements figured out to a T. They bump against each other only to celly (which is still often, they’re that good). 

Perry chirps a lot in Spanish. Only Parson seems to respond in kind. He mostly responds in English, which throws everyone else off. Perry says y’all a lot, but Nathan finds it endearing. Perry mentions at the end of the day that he wants to go sight seeing. 

“Maybe see where the night takes us,” he explains excitedly. 

Yeah, Nathan thinks to himself. They’ll get along just fine. 

_/.\\_

Mateo Rigel Perez Rendon has a really hard time not flirting with cute people. Unfortunately, Nathan Chopra is the most attractive guy he’s ever met. Fortunately, Nathan’s straight and clearly oblivious. So when Parse and Troy invite themselves on their night on the town, Perry is relieved. They find a bar that actually lets eighteen year olds in and take a cab to the Strip.

Someone offers to buy Parse a drink. He turns them down with a charming grin. By the way Parse glares at every drink that passes by them, Perry assumes there’s a story behind it. He tries not to jump to conclusions. He’s heard the rumors floating around about Zimmermann. Maybe they weren’t that far off. 

After they each, sans Parse, get a drink in their system, they head out to wander the strip. It’s crowded and bright. Un montón of people putter around them as they take in the buildings and signs. Perry can smell alcohol and greasy foods for miles. The four of them stick close together, trying not to get lost among the masses. He wishes he had some music on him. Vegas feels...como puro fantasía. Too rehearsed and guilted, like someone put a Hollywood set in the middle of nowhere and people just started showing up. 

Perry thinks he can pick out some people who don’t look gender conforming. It makes him smile hard for some reason. Some protesters scream on a street corner about repenting for giving into earthly desires. Parse taps Troy’s shoulder and pulls him down for a kiss in front of the protestors. 

Parse flips them off before pulling Troy across the street. Perry and Nathan follow them, despite the red hand on the cross walk sign. Across the street, Troy looks dazed. Parse pats his chest. 

“I’ll warn you next time,” Parse says. 

“Thanks,” Troy rasps. 

Kent smirks triumphantly. “C’mon boys, I think I saw a taco truck down the street.” 

Perry groans in relief. “Finally, I’m fucking starving.” 

They order more tacos than they should probably have, and Kent foots the bill. 

“Gotta work on bribing people with all this hockey money, right?” he says.

“Won’t work if you’re broke in two months,” Nathan chirps. 

Kent waves him off, “That’s what my financial advisor is for. She’ll cut me off if I get too trigger happy.” 

They wander around for an hour or so. They talk about their hometowns and how hot Vegas is, even at night. La luces y el ruido of the Strip are a sea of sensory overload that reminds him that soon, hopefully, they’ll have to get used to tuning out giant stadiums full of fans. Perry doesn’t recognize where they are when Troy mentions something about checking out the Bellagio fountains. 

Kent shrugs. “Sure, let me just—” 

“Oh no,” Troy interrupts. “Don’t say ‘let me just punch the address into my gps app.’ That’s how we ended up halfway to Reno last time.” 

“When are you gonna let that go!”

“That was yesterday!”

“Exactly, you should be over it today,” Kent insists. 

Nathan shushes them. “Let’s find someone to ask, alright?” 

“That narrows it down,” Kent mutters. 

“Look, this guy,” Nathan points to a bald man passing them. “Excuse me, sir. Would you know how to get to the Bellagio?” 

The man looks eerily familiar. Perry considers this as he points them in the direction they came from.  

“Weren’t you on  _ ER _ ?” Perry finds himself asking.  

The man blushes, his eyes light up slightly, “Yes.” 

Kent opens his mouth to say something, but Troy pushes him out of the way. 

“Y-y-you’re Anthony Edwards, aren’t you?”

“Guilty,” he says with a chuckle. 

Troy gawks. “Sir, I have seen Top Gun so many times—”

“What my doofus friend is trying to say,” Kent cuts in, “is he’s a really big fan, and would you sign his cap for him? I think I got a pen…”

“Of course,” he agrees as Kent hands him a sharpie and the cap off Troy’s head. 

Once they’ve said their thank yous and goodbyes, Kent starts pulling Troy along. Perry and Nathan follow. 

“You’re welcome,” Kent mutters. 

Troy swallows, finally snapping out of it. He stares at Nathan incredulously. “How’d you do that?”

“What?”

“Go up to fucking Anthony Edwards like he was nobody. It was so...cool.” 

Nathan shrugs. “I have no idea who he is.” 

Kent lets out a low whistle. “Oh boy.” 

“You don’t know who—” Troy’s voice pitches. “Un-fucking-believable.” 

Nathan looks at Perry for help. “You know, Anthony Edwards. _ ER _ , he played Goose in  _ Top Gun _ ?” 

“Goose? What kind of nickname is that?”  

Troy fumes. “First of all—”

“Here we go,” Kent says, rolling his eyes.

“It’s not a ‘nickname’, it’s a call sign,” he says petulantly. “Second, you chirpin’ Goose? Really? You’re Canadian.” 

“So? It’s not like we all love geese or earn our magical syrup powers from catching one. Or something.”   

Kent quirks a brow. “Actually, this is perfect.”

Perry blanches at him. “How?”

“Nathan needs a nickname, and it’s staring us in the fucking face.” 

Perry snorts, choking a laugh. “Goose,” he tests out. “It’s so Canadian...Goose.”  

Nathan groans next to him. “Fine. I’m Goose now, happy?” 

Troy snorts. “For now, we need to get back to West’s place and watch Top Gun—stat.” 

“You’re in love with Anthony Edwards. It’s fucking adorable,” Kent chirps. 

“What are my other options? Tom Cruise? Nope, not in a million years.” Troy motions them to keep walking. “We got a few blocks to go.”

“We could grab a taxi,” Perry suggest. 

Nathan shakes his head. “Where’s the fun in that?” 

_/.\\_ 

Jeff goes camping with Perry and Goose for 4th of July. They don’t know it’s Kent’s birthday, and he isn’t about to tell them. There’s only one thing he wants to do today—be alone. 

He dials Jack’s number. It goes to voicemail. He sighs, trying again. Jack hasn’t answered any of the texts he’s sent the last few weeks. Kent tries a total of twelve times before he decides to leave a voicemail. 

“Hi,” he rasps. “It’s me. Uh—your mom said she’d give me updates when you’re in a better place. I guess that hasn’t happened yet—It’s fine, take your time. I—uh, just miss you. I miss you a lot. I lo—”

Kent thinks he hears someone shuffling downstairs. He hangs up without thinking. It’s a reflex. He isn’t about to out Jack because he’s feeling sentimental. He decides to find a movie on YouTube, because he doesn’t want to run into anyone downstairs. He watches _ When Harry Met Sally _ and tries not to cry when Harry says,  “—and I love that you’re the last person I wanna talk to before I go to sleep at night.” 

Kent recites the line verbatim, because it’s his favorite part. Because he’s always believed in best friends falling in love, or in people who fall in love and then become best friends, even. 

He doesn’t think about anything else but Jack on his eighteenth birthday. He spends the day cooped up in his room, waiting for it to be over. It’s a shitty year, and it just started. Home is where the heart is, and he couldn’t be any more lost. 

_/.\\_  

July 2008   

“Hurry up, Zimms,” Kent calls over his shoulder as he runs forward. They’ve snuck out of Jack’s house to go to a park a few blocks away. 

“I’m coming,” he grunts. “You could slow down.” 

“Fuck no,” Kent says. “I only turn seventeen once.” 

The park is dark and deserted, but that’s exactly why they didn’t come sooner. They end up on an old swing set, holding hands and looking up at the night sky. Something bright flies overhead. 

“Make a wish,” Jack whispers.         

Kent closes his eyes, thinking hard. When he’s done, he opens them. He gets lost in Jack’s blue eyes, glimmering in the moonlight. Kent finds himself doing that a lot lately, getting caught up in Jack’s orbit. He’s in love with Jack, and the way he loves being in love. He’s in love with sad eyes, and the way Jack’s sharp nose used to look out of place with his round face. He loves Jack’s accent, and the way he bites his tongue when he has a thought, but hasn’t formed it fully enough to want to share. 

He think he could get lost forever in Jack. Jack listens to him and holds him accountable for things. He knows how to get Kent to shut up. He knows how to calm Kent down when he’s being too annoying or embarrassing. It’s a good system. Kent pulls Jack up, and Jack brings Kent down to earth. When they’re in sync, no one can touch them. 

This must be what soulmates are like, Kent surmises. 

“You know what I wished for?” Kent asks, licking his lips. 

Jack raises an eyebrow, shrugging indifferently. 

Kent leans over to kiss his cheek. “I wish—no matter where we go, we’ll always be together.” 

He looks at Kent for a moment before nodding. “Ok, Kenny.”

“Ok what?”

“We’ll stay together,” he says.

“Promise?” Kent asks hesitantly. 

Jack reaches for his other hand, pulling it close and squeezing it tight. “Promise.” 

_/.\\_ 

July 2009

West wakes Kent and Jeff up early the next morning.

“We’re going fishing,” West announces. “You’ve got five minutes to get dressed.” 

Kent glares and turns around, shutting his bedroom door behind him

“That wasn’t a question, Parson,” West shouts. He looks at Jeff pointedly. 

Jeff takes the hint. He quickly gets dressed in a t-shirt and shorts. Kent’s already downstairs by the time he’s done. 

West drives them to Lake Mead, gear and tackle boxes in the back. They ride there silently, except for Joni Mitchell on low volume. Jeff watches the way Kent stares out the window. He doesn’t get him, really. Sometimes he’s the most charismatic, outgoing guy Jeff’s ever met. He’s the life of the party and center attention. But when it’s just him and West, Kent’s this sullen, withdrawn person. 

After they’ve gotten settled on the banks of the Colorado River and West teaches Kent the basics, there’s a lull. 

“So a birdie in PR told me your birthday was yesterday, Parse,” West says out of nowhere. 

Jeff has to do a double take. He stares at Kent, who won’t stop staring at the fucking water. Kent merely shrugs. 

“It’s hard being away from home,” West continues. 

“Yeah, I guess,” Kent says quietly. 

West nods, staring out at the river. “There’s no shame in asking for things that you want.” 

“I wanted a quiet night in,” Kent says softly. “It was nice.” 

West looks as unconvinced as Jeff feels. But when they look at each other over Kent’s head, they seem to agree on dropping it for now. 

Sometime later, West starts talking again. “You know, teams don’t have to be like families. Some of them work like a machine, and they get by just fine.” 

“But—” Kent prompts. 

“The teams that trust each other, that look out for each other. Those are the guys you still talk to at the end of the day. Those are the guys you spend your retirement with, and help name your kids.” 

Kent stiffens slightly. 

West grunts, pursing his lips. “Probably feels far away now. But if you play your cards right, life after hockey is much richer than life with it. That means caring about the people that are here now.” 

Jeff winces at the way Kent clenches his fishing rod. He doesn’t talk. They keep fishing. West catches a few fish, but throws them back. They take the long way back to the car. By the time they get home with takeout, Kent’s all but huddled into himself. West holds the front door open for them as Kent shuffles behind Jeff. 

“Kent, pick a movie. We’re watching something with dinner,” West orders. 

He puts on  _ When Harry Met Sally _ . Jeff feels the tension vibrating off Kent. It occurs to him that Kent doesn’t just watch movies. He gets sucked into them when he needs something to cling onto. He tries to remember the last time he saw Kent watching a film without being wrapped in a blanket or buried under his oversized Rimouski sweatshirt. 

Kent has nothing to shield himself from whatever gets under his skin about these kinds of stories. Jeff thinks about the guy who charges fearlessly on ice and kisses him in public just to piss some bigots off. It’s hard to believe that that’s the same person who crumbles the second he gets home. Then again, Jeff has no idea how hard he has to fight. 

Maybe there were just things he couldn’t know or really get. But Kent’s a good teammate. He deserves to know that someone’s got his back. 

Jeff scoots a little closer to Kent, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. He feels Kent’s body quiver before he buries his face in Jeff’s shoulder. Jeff pulls him even closer. He’s never been much of a cuddler. But Kent fits perfectly beside him. 

He thinks he feels his t-shirt dampen. Then again, it could be nothing. Kent passes out around an hour in. It doesn’t matter, because Jeff and West keep watching anyway. It’s sort of a weird movie. People who don’t get along at first finding each other at random intervals over the years and slowly falling in love. 

Around the last scene, Kent wakes up enough to mutter every line. Jeff wonders if it’s comforting or something he’s submitted himself to. It sounds like a mantra of hopelessness more than anything. As the credits role, Kent shifts away from Jeff. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs without looking Jeff in the eye. 

Jeff swallows thickly. He doesn’t get Kent, not by a long shot. But he realizes that not everyone gets an easy story. Most people don’t get second chances, and maybe this is Jeff’s chance to get to know someone who might be worth a hell of a lot someday. 

“No problem,” he says, “Happy Birthday.” 

Kent smirks, briefly catching Jeff’s gaze out of the corner of his eye. “Thanks.” 

_/.\\_ 

The next time the rookies go hiking is a few weeks later. This time, Kent tags along. Nathan’s resigned himself to being called Goose; it’s not nearly as terrible as his old nickname. Perry’s been wingmanning the shit out of him lately. Which he appreciates, if only he could get to flirt with some guys every now and then. 

They pick a long hike because Perry and Troy dicked around so much last time that they barely got any running in. This way, they’d at least do some cardio. 

The hike itself is decent. Mostly it’s a lot of uphill walking, navigating around red rocks and hard desert soil. Perry shouts at Kent a few times not to stray from the trail. He listens after a bird scares the living shit out of him. Goose tries, and fails, to withhold a chuckle. 

He notices a cloud flying over head that reminds him of his sister’s cat, Chloe. A pang of guilt hits him when he considers that he could’ve taken Chloe with him. Maybe he should have. He thinks about Nehal’s bright smile, her wicked chirps, and the way she always spoke with her hands. 

Thinking about Nehal still feels like a bullet to the heart. He tries to remember when was the last time he tried calling his parents. Maybe he should do that sometime. They’d probably appreciate knowing he’s still kicking. 

“Goose,” Troy shouts a few hundred feet in front of him. Kent and Perry are already far ahead. “Get your head out of the clouds. We’re going.” 

Goose sighs, clicking his tongue. “Coming,” he says just as loudly, breaking into a sprint to catch up.

_/.\\_ 

May 2005

Nathan’s fourteen, and his best friend is his sister. Nehal’s the kind of person who leaps before she thinks—unless she’s thinking about the stars. Then she’s careful, pragmatic, and serious. They’re camping out for the night in the backyard of their family home outside of Toronto. Nehal is setting up her telescope to observe Cygnus. 

“Get over here, dummy,” she commands Nathan. 

“I’m not dumb,” he grumbles as he trudges over. 

She pats his head lovingly. “You don’t need to be dumb to be a dummy. Now come on, look at this beauty.” 

He gazes into the telescope. As per usual, he doesn’t know what he’s looking at. 

“Tell me what I’m looking for,” he says.

“Deneb,” Nehal says, her tone implying that she’s already crossed her arms impatiently. “It’s the brightest star and the end of the constellation.” 

“Ok,” he says.  

She taps his shoulder, scooting him over. She adjusts the position of the telescope slightly. “Now look.” 

When he looks this time, he can make out a cluster of stars that look like a crooked T. “I think I see it. What’s it supposed to be?”

“Cygnus means swan,” she explains. 

“It looks more like a goose to me,” he teases. 

She sighs, rolling her eyes as he glances over to him. “Try to take this seriously, Nathan. Cygnus is one of the most recognizable constellations in the summer. It has the northern cross, and Deneb is one corner of the Summer Triangle.” 

“Blah blah blah,” Nathan mocks. “When do we get to the exciting stuff.”

She quirks a brow. “Like what?” 

“Like black holes, life on other planets, and warp drive,” he suggests. 

“Physics, biology, and science fiction,” she retorts. “I have a lot of schooling left until we can ‘get to the exciting stuff’.” 

He groans. “Fine. Show me the rest of this triangle.” 

Nehal chuckles, pulling Nathan in for a noogie despite him already having a good five inches on her. 

“You need to learn to love the stars,” she teases. “That’s where you’ll find me someday, and I will not take your disrespect.” 

Nathan rolls his eyes. “I promise if that ever happens, I’ll learn every star in the sky by heart.” 

Nehal smirks, offering her right pinky to him. “Promise?” 

He sighs, responding in kind with his own pinky to shake. “Promise.” 

_/.\\_ 

July 2009

When the rookies get back to West’s place, they decide to start up the fire pit in the back yard. Kent grabs supplies for s'mores while Troy natters on about summers in New Jersey. Goose finds himself staring at the night sky more than listening to the anecdotes the other guys are swapping. 

He feels someone nudge him. His eyes snap to Perry whose brows are furrowed. 

“You okay?” Perry asks. 

Goose nods. “Just looking at the stars.” 

Perry frowns. Scooting his chair so close their shoulders are touching, he looks up in the general direction Goose had been. 

“What are we looking at?” 

Goose’s mouth parts slightly, caught off guard. “The Summer Triangle,” he explains as he takes Perry’s hand to point to things. “That’s Deneb. Then there’s Vega, which is part of the constellation Lyra, and Altair, which is a part of Aquila.” 

He looks over at Perry who’s chewing his lip. “What’s Deneb in?”

“Cygnus,” he says. 

“Isn’t that a dog?” Kent asks.

“No, that’s Sirius,” Troy corrects him. “I thought you read  _ Harry Potter _ ?”

“Not all of them,” Kent grumbles.

“He shows up in the third book,” Troy says. 

“I’ve been busy,” Kent says. 

“The movie came out five years ago,” Troy argues, running a hand through his hair. “Jesus.” 

“Goose,” Nathan finds himself murmuring. 

“What’s that?” Perry says. 

“Goose, that’s Cygnus,” he explains. 

Perry smiles, “Just like you, huh, Nathan?” 

Goose nods, licking his lips as he feels something drop in the pit of his stomach. “Yea.”

He notices that he’s still holding Perry’s hand. Perry squeezes comfortingly, smiling softly. “Show me something else,” he says. “You know a lot about astronomy.” 

Goose chuckles mirthlessly. “I hope so. I know every star in the sky by heart.” 


	2. Fall

September 2009

August flies by quickly. Not much happens, except Kent goes MIA for the first week. When Perry asks Troy or West about it, they shrug and tell him it’s best to leave it alone. Whatever that means. Although more players have been trickling in as the summer rolls on, the week before the first preseason game is the first time he’s seen the majority of the team in the same room at once.

The locker room es más animado con bastante gente rushing around. Perry isn’t against crowds, but sometimes they get to be too much. He likes knowing he has some people in his corner, wherever he is.  

He notices West with his arm around his d-partner, Marcus Smith. Perry remembers watching him getting drafted to the Aces. He was their first rookie, and their first Black player, for that matter. He was their first Calder winner. Perry’s convinced he’ll stay here until he retires.

His smile is just as bright as the first day Perry ever saw him. And it’s surreal that Perry gets to meet his hero.

“Perry, great timing. This is my partner, Marcus,” West says.

“Hi,” Perry says as he offers a handshake. “My real name’s Mateo, but I like Perry better.”

“You can call Smithy,” Marcus relays. “It’s nice to meet my future replacement.”

“I—” Perry stammers.

“He’s chirping you,” Goose says as he walks by. “They already tried that on me this morning.”   

Perry sighs. “Awesome. Pissing off the vets was the last thing on my bucket list.”

“Per,” Kent shouts from his stall. “Have you met Fish yet?”

“I just got here, man,” Perry says.

“Dude, he’s fucking amazing,” Kent says excitedly. He looks around. “Where the fuck did he go?”

“Probably the trainers’ room,” Smithy answers. “He’s got the worst calves.”

“Glad I’m not the only one,” Kent mutters.

“You mean, ‘glad Perry isn’t on an opposing team, or he’d whoop your ass in five seconds,’” Perry chirps.

Kent flips him off, which only stands to make him laugh harder.

Goose pulls him away from the laughing older d-pair so he can get ready.

Practice goes about as well as he expected. The assistant coaches seem to have it more together than the head coach, but who is Perry to judge that?

By the end of practice, however, something had become abundantly clear to Perry.

_Don’t be such a bitch._

_Stop slacking off, fag._

_Get a move on, princess._

_Pick up the pace, ladies. This isn’t a trip to the mall._

Perry’s hunched over his skates, still unlacing them as most of the guys have already gone home. Kent plops down next to him.

“You want help or—” Kent prompts.

Perry glares at him wearily. He throws his laces down and leans back. Kent takes this as a yes.

“You heard how they were talking out there, right?” Perry says gruffly.

Kent pauses momentarily. He sighs. “Yeah, I sure fucking did.”

“Doesn’t it bother you?” Perry asks.

“Fuck, Perry, of course it does,” Kent groans. “But we’re fresh meat. You think I’m gonna tell off the six foot five vets on my first day?”

“I guess not,” he relents. He lets the subject drop.

When Kent is done with both of his skates, he gets up, patting Perry lightly on the shoulder. “Maybe if we stick together, eventually we’ll get them to shut up.”

Perry nods as he pulls his shin pads off. “Hopefully.”

“Hey,” Kent says softly. “We gotta get a little hell to give a little hell.”

Unfortunately, Perry knew he was right.

_/.\\_

September 2002

Mateo is eleven when Magdalena is allowed to start wearing makeup. His mother has always had strict guidelines for each of her five children, including but not limited to, how to not grow up too quickly. His eldest sister, Nadia, puts eyeshadow on for Magdalena every day for three weeks so she can get the hang of it.

“We can’t have you going to school pareciendo como un payaso, can we?” Nadia repeats every morning haughtily.

Mateo sits on Magdalena’s bed, watching quietly from a distance. Nadia murmurs something about a transition color and using a dome brush. Maggie asks why.

“Porque estupida,” Nadia says with a scowl. “A dome brush swirls the shadows together easily. A flat brush would just smear it across your eyes.”

“A dome brush also fits better in your crease,” Mateo finds himself adding. He covers his mouth quickly, hoping Nadia won’t be upset.

Instead, her eyes meet his in the vanity mirror. They glint with pride as she smirks. Not much, but Nadia isn’t very expressive of positive emotions to begin with.

“Precisely,” she says. “You’ve been listening better than she has. Maybe I should be teaching you.”

“Okay,” he murmurs. Partly because he’s afraid of what she’ll do if he disagrees.

Nadia, as the eldest of his sisters, always rules with an iron fist. She grew up acting as their  second mother when their mom was too busy with work. At the end of the day, though, Mateo trusts her. That’s enough.  

That evening, after Nadia’s come back from her shift at McDonald’s, she drags Mateo into her room. She does his makeup meticulously, asking him questions along the way. Mostly about makeup, sometimes about his friends at school.

“You got a crush on anyone at school?” Nadia asks while she’s applying eyeliner on him.

Mateo shrugs. “Not really.”

“That’s okay.” She jerks his chin slightly. “Hold still.”

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

“You know—” Nadia’s tone lightens and her eyes glint. “It’s okay if you don’t like _girls_.”

“I know.” He’d been told often enough that girls are gross to know that. “They’re not icky. I just—don’t like anyone.”   

“Alright,” she acquiesces. “But if you ever feel like—I don’t know—you need to talk to someone about stuff. Maybe about a crush on a nice boy...I gotcha, okay?”

“Okay.”

She hands him her mirror when she’s done with his eyeliner. Mateo hears someone laughing, and it takes a second for his mind to process that it’s him. He looks...different. Yet somehow, he looks more like himself than he’s seen.

“You look perfect,” Nadia tells him.

Mateo nods. It sounds right in his ears. Not guapisimo, not hermoso, just perfect. Just perfectly himself.

_/.\\_

_Up the ice comes Jeff Troy. He flicks it to Parson—score right through the five hole._

_…_

_Parson finds tries to break free. He finds some room...he shoots—he scores!_

_…_

_Puck is over to Magruder. Parson passes to Troy. He goes around back. Finds some free space next to the goal post. No one seems to be paying—oh, Troy passes to Parson. Parson sneaks it past Eriksson's legs. It’s a goal!_

_A hat trick for his NHL debut. Truly, we’ve only seen a glimpse of what is yet to come._

_/.\\_

October 2009

Kent has no plans to go out at all. Ever. Really, he’s beyond the point of caring about getting drunk anymore. He tries to convince himself that he’s grown out of it like any mature guy would. It’s totally not because he keeps thinking of the eighty five different ways he could get drunk, hate himself more than he already does, and try very hard to die.

Regardless, if it’s out of sight, it’s out of mind.

So when after his tenth game, Smithy approaches him saying they’re going out tonight, he doesn’t know what to say. Smithy’s the kind of guy who’s charismatic and kind hearted. He doesn’t expect a lot from people. Which makes the few times he does ask for things so inexplicably hard to say no to.

Kent’s sure he does it on purpose. He knows how to play his cards right. So, begrudgingly, he piles into the back of West’s car with Perry in tow.

“What did he say to get you to come?” Kent grunts.

“Karaoke,” Perry answers simply.

“What? That’s it?”

“I really like karaoke, Parse,” he says.

Kent hums. “Sweet. So this should be equal parts embarrassing and amazing.”

Perry smacks his shoulder lightly. “You’ll be fine. You’re only what? Half tone deaf?”

“Fuck off, Perez,” Kent says with a smirk.

“Not here, not now,” he responds with a lofty tone.

They end up at some karaoke bar that lets them have a spacious booth toward the back.

“I didn’t know hockey was big enough around here for special treatment,” Perry comments.

“It’s not,” Smithy informs him with a snort. “Around here we’re just some rich losers who tip really well.”

“Let ‘em down gently, Marcus,” West says. “Who knows? Maybe some day they will be.”

“We’d need a little more than some fresh rookies with raw talent to get any respect around here,” Smithy argues. “No offence, guys. I’m sure you’ll be great someday. That’s just...not the style around here.”

Kent sees the protest on the tip of Perry’s lip. He must have come from a stricter family than Kent. Sure, his mom would ground him on the regular, but she always did it with some begrudging love and indulgence. Perry doesn’t talk back to anyone he sees as an authority figure. Goose had to drag him home one time when fucking Coach Price told him to skate suicides until he fell over.

Smithy and West made sure that never happened again. Still, Price made it way too easy for Kent to hate him and undermine him at every turn. Logically, he knew if he pushed Price’s buttons too hard, he stood to get knocked to the farm team in Reno, or getting traded all together.

Then again, even Price can’t deny they’re doing leagues better than they ever have. No matter what some of the vets keep murmuring about affirmative action and sucking up to PC fans. And ticket sales are up, so fuck them tenderly.

Smithy tells Kent something about them doing a Britney song together after the group that’s currently on. Which is when Kent realizes that Smithy hasn’t bothered to go sign them up yet. Which means either he really knows how to bribe the people who own this place, or he’s had this planned for who knows how long, and Kent was merely a pawn.

“Come on, Kenny,” Smithy says indulgently as he drags him to the stage. “You need to start acting your age.”

“I didn’t know that was an issue,” he grumbles.

“Around here it is,” Smithy banters. “Life is long, but Vegas is a messed up purgatory where you either give too much of a shit or not nearly enough. Gotta keep yourself young, Kent. Before it sucks you dry.”

Once they’re on stage, the hook for a song that’s completely new but already etched into Kent’s heart comes on.

“No,” he murmurs. “How the fuck do they already have this?” Kent stares at Smithy in awe. “How did you—”

“You’re not the only one who’s a fan of Britney, Kent,” he says.

And without another word, they’re singing together like they have been for years. Like they’re more than just teammates, they’re friends. It hits Kent like a ton of bricks as he sees Perry wolf whistling and West laughing into his beer. He has friends. He’s got a life here. He’s got people to lean on and laugh with.

For a moment, he forgets about the one sided text conversation he’s been having for months. He forgets about the voicemail he kept filling until the inbox announced it was full. He forgets about the nightmares and the ache he feels whenever he turns around and expects to see Jack. He forgets to think about bathrooms and pill bottles until he uses the restroom, and catches someone chugging something in one of the stalls.

If he throws up later that night after a few too many drinks—desperate to get the alcohol out of his system—well, no one’s awake to notice him sobbing against a toilet bowl either.     

_/.\\_

Jeff finds himself rewatching _They Live_ with Kent on a roadie in mid November. They’re in Seattle, so he could be out taking pictures of the the sights for Trish. But he decides early on that it’s too wet outside.

He and Kent are slumped against each other on the bed. Their hands find each other, clasping on tight enough that he knows Kent’s still awake. He hasn’t said much since the postgame interviews. But Jeff figures that he’s taking time to process something. Kent’s weird like that. Some days he’s flying higher than the sky, making everyone eat out of the palm of his hand. Other times, it’s like he’s a completely different person just trying to get by.

“Why do you do this,” Kent murmurs during a random fight scene.

Jeff grunts, not looking away from the screen. “Do what?”

“Stay in when you could be out with the guys,” he says.

Jeff shrugs. “I like it here.”

Kent snorts. “I’m not exactly the best company.”

“Bullshit,” Jeff thinks out loud. This isn’t the first time Kent’s disregarded himself so casually.

He scoffs.

“I’m serious, Parse,” Jeff says indignantly. “Who the fuck convinced you that you’re shitty company?”

Kent pales, averting his eyes. Shit, Jeff thinks, maybe his hunches were more accurate than he thought. Instead of arguing more, he rolls over, lying on top of Kent.

“Get off,” Kent groans.

“Nope,” Jeff says stubbornly, “not until you say one nice thing about yourself.”

“You’re shitting me,” Kent grumbles.

“No, I’m dead fucking serious.”

Kent pouts, pursing his lips. “I got two assists tonight.”

“Something not hockey related,” Jeff amends.

He stays quiet for a second. But by the looks of his glare, Jeff can tell he’s taking it seriously.

“I’m good at math,” he concludes finally. “Like, scary good. I would’ve gone to some stuffy STEM school if it weren’t for hockey.”

“Yeah?” Jeff smirks as he looks down at Kent’s furrowed brow. He tries not to think about how many times he’s wanted to kiss away the frown lines from Kent’s face. He doesn’t like to think too hard about that. “You think you have what it takes to be a Princeton man?”

Kent fucking giggles. “I’m not cut out for hoity toity bullshit, sorry.”

“Yeah,” Jeff says with a chuckle. “Me neither, honestly.”

Kent narrows his eyes and scrunches his nose, trying to squirm out from underneath Jeff as he says, “I thought your parents—like—groomed you for that life.”     

Jeff rolls off Kent, staring at the ceiling. “Yeah, parents,” he says finally.

He feels Kent shift next to him. Kent lays his head on Jeff’s left shoulder, like always.

“Tell me about it,” Kent says softly. His tone is inviting more than commanding.

Jeff exhales loudly, closing his eyes.

_/.\\_

October 2004

The first time he realizes his parents don’t take his interests seriously, he’s thirteen.

“That’s lovely, Jeffery,” his mother says dismissively one night at dinner.

He was trying to tell her about how well hockey practice went, and that his coach thought he has a real future in it. Her nose is buried in lesson plans and revising the syllabus for her non euclidean geometry course.

“Natalie,” his father Robert says without looking up from his book. “Shouldn’t we be more concerned that this...hobby of his will go too far?”

Natalie waves him off. “It’s a contact sport. He’ll grow tired of it in a year or two once his physical performance has peaked.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Robert counters.

“Well,” she says, staring at him sternly. “In that case, I’m sure he’ll have plenty of stories for the admissions committee. Perhaps his capstone project will delve into sports culture.”

Robert stares blankly at her for a moment before humming. “He could provide invaluable insight into toxic masculinity and the commodification of youth.”

“Precisely,” Natalie agrees. “For now, indulge him.”

At this point in his life, Jeff knows better than to point out to his parents that he’s still there. He can hear everything they are saying. Somehow, it bothers him more that he’s so used to them disregarding him. He tells himself things will be different some day. Once he’s drafted and making six or more figures, he’ll show his parents. He’s the most serious and passionate when he’s on the ice. That has to count for something.

_/.\\_

_Perez sneaks the puck past Boyle. He shoots it straight across and oh! It’s in! That’s 3 to 1 for the Aces at the top of the third period._

_/.\\_

November 2009

After their game against the Kings, Goose is ready to hit the hay and go to fucking sleep. In the midst of murmurs and celebratory music, he hears one of the older forwards, Petey, being an asshole to Kent.

“You gonna change sometime this century, Parse?”

“Why? Wanna compare dick sizes or just imagine how good mine feels?”

Some laughs erupts. Goose isn’t blind, he’s sees the heat in Kent’s eyes whenever he has to make a joke like that. It’s a defense mechanism, but it’s pretty convincing nonetheless.

“Don’t be such a fucking pussy,” Petey says. “You never fucking change around us. Why’s that?”

Kent’s face is neutral, but Goose can see the color seeping out of his face. There’s some murmurs of “oh yea”, “why”, and “what the fuck Parse.”

Goose feels like he should do something. Next to him, Perry makes a gagging sound that catches everyone, including Kent’s, attention.

“Fuck, why’d you bring that up?” Perry snaps.

“What, why?” Petey asks.

Perry smacks Goose’s side. “You tell ‘em. You’re the one who saw it.”

Goose freezes, trying desperately to think of something to say. “You mean—”

“That’s right!” Perry raises his brows. “That awful gaping wound he has on his side.”

Perry claps Goose’s back in just the right way that he swallows too much spit at once, causing him to choke. He leans over, trying to catch his breath.

“Is he alright?” Fish asks.

“Oh no, not at all,” Perry informs him gravely. “Goose is traumatized.”

“It was so green and oozing...” Goose says, keeping his head down. “And it smells like burned feet and diaper rash.”

There’s a chorus of concerned murmuring. Goose decides to up the anti, pretending to dry heave.

“What’s wrong with him?” someone asks.

“It was so gross,” Goose laments. “I still get nightmares about it.”

Perry grabs him by the shoulders, pulling him up. “Wow, I think he’s about to puke. I’m taking him to the trainer. Parse, you better come along. You oozing wound is probably a scientific anomaly or something.”

Perry rushes them out of the room. Troy’s not far behind. But they keep jogging until they find themselves in the basement of the arena behind some old mattresses. They all take a minute to catch their breath.

“Thanks,” Kent says, still panting. “I fucking owe you guys.”

“No sweat, man,” Perry says. “We got your back.”

“Yea,” Goose agrees, “oozing wound and all.”

Kent erupts in laughter. “Fuck, I’m never gonna live that down, am I?”

“Not a chance,” Troy says. “You’re gonna be known for the rest of your fucking life as that dude with the creepy injury.”

“Eh, if that’ll keep them off my back, so be it,” he concedes.

Kent turns to Goose and Perry, and all but tackles them in a hug. “Thanks for the assist, assholes.”

“Fuck off,” Perry chuckles.

“Don’t get too sentimental on us, Parse,” Goose chirps. “Someone might figure out you’re a nice guy.”

Kent sticks his tongue out. “As if.”

_/.\\_

_Chopra finds space, flicks it to Perez—score! Aces 5 to 2 over the Avs here in the second period._

_/.\\_   

A few days later, Kent finds himself splayed across the laps of Goose and Troy. He’s reading some gossip articles on his phone while they play Mario Kart. Perry’s out back talking with his family about Christmas plans. He’s been thinking about telling them for a while now. He was really touched the other day when they stuck up for him, not asking a single question about it.

Perry saunters back inside, sagging on the recliner to the right of the couch.

“So what’d I miss,”

“Goose is getting his ass kicked by yours truly,” Troy grunts.

“In your dreams—Swoops,” Goose chirps.

“Fuck,” Troy says. “Kent, you’re gonna pay for that.”

“What?” Kent gripes. “It’s not my fault you face planted at a Knicks game when we were sixteen. That shit went viral on its own.”

“You didn’t have to tell them about it—” Troy protests, squawking as Goose crosses the finish line first.

“So, uh, actually,” Kent starts awkwardly. “I figured—maybe it’s ok if you guys know why I don’t change with everyone else.”       

Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees Perry scooching closer.

“Shit,” Perry says. “Is it worse than an oozing smelly green wound?”

“Fuck off, Perez,” Kent says. “I’m trying to be real with you guys.”

“Sorry, backing off, spill,” he waves for Kent to resume.

Kent shuts his lids tight. “I—uh, fuck. I’m a trans dude.”

They’re silent for a second. It stretches out for eons. He thinks about getting off Goose and Troy and just bolting for his room. He thinks about the odds that they’ll out him to the administration and he’ll have to go home. He thinks about fucking punching the shit out of them if they give him any shit. But then again, they’re not responding poorly. He’s still just fine.

It’s Goose who speaks up first. “Oh,” he says. “Cool.”

Kent snorts “Cool?”

Goose stares at him incredulously. “What do you want me to say? ‘All of your dick jokes are officially ten times funnier now’?”

“No, think about it,” Perry adds. “He just has to put one on. He can have as big of a dick as he wants. He wins.”

“Fuck…” Troy hums. “Yeah, you fucking asshole. You get to win all the fights you want. You don’t even have to worry about someone kicking you in the nuts.”

“You’re all idiots,” Kent retorts.

“Hey, no worries, man,” Perry says cheerfully. “You’re Kent fucking Parson. Nothing will ever change that.”

“He’s right,” Goose agrees. “You’re a good guy, and friend.”

“And despite your awful taste in music,” Troy adds, “you’re awesome as fuck.”

“Thank fuck.” Kent lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Last thing I wanna do is get kicked off the team for telling you guys.”

“No fucking way,” Perry says. “Wait, does anyone else know?”

“Other than like my family? No,” he says. “And my ex knows.”

“Ex,” Troy says incredulously.

“Fuck off, Jeff,” he groans. “I’ve dated before.”

“Yea, I’m not surprised,” Troy says. “Just wondering if this is the part where you admit you’re not straight either.”

“You first,” Kent chirps. “You had a major boner for Lundqvist yesterday.”

“I never said I was straight,” Troy argues. “I’m really fucking bi.”

“Wait, neither of you are straight?” Perry asks.

“Neither am I,” Goose adds.

Perry blanches. “I’ve been flirting with you for months. The fuck, Nathan?”

“Were you?” Goose squints. “I was wondering. But I didn’t want to be that douchebag who assumes.”

“Don’t take it personally, Per,” Kent says sympathetically. “Goose’s vibe is all over the place.”

Troy laughs at their expense. He cards his hand through Kent’s hair like nothing’s changed. Because it hasn’t. He just doesn’t have to worry about being on high alert around his best friends—his family, really.

Kent doesn’t think he’ll regret trusting them.

_/.\\_

September 2008

Mateo is seventeen playing hockey in Pennsylvania, of all places. His mother had given him a hard time about forfeiting his chance to play college hockey to play in the OHL.

“Who’s going to draft un flacito Chicano from El Paso in a league of giant white men?” He remembers her asking bitterly.

In the end, it takes a few weeks, and the help of of all his sisters (and a few cousins and uncles), to get his mother to let him give it a shot. Mateo is on the second line for most of his first season. He considers that as a win. His d-partner isn’t terrible, but he’s the kind of guy Mateo would never associate with outside of practice. His team is alright for the most part. There’s a lot of stupid jokes about him being un vaquero. Those died down quickly and turn into legitimate questions once they find out that yes, his uncle owns a ranch, and why yes, he’s an expert barrel racer.

“So why hockey?” his team’s captain asks one day. “Why not stay home and...barrel race?”

“Hockey pays the bills,” Mateo answers simply.

He doesn’t want to mention that barrel racing isn’t something guys really do. They already give him odd looks for blasting Carrie Underwood before every game. Well, that was last season. This season, it’s a lot of Miranda Lambert.

He’s seventeen, and the more he thinks about it, the less he understands what guys really do. He’s made some friends with some theater kids, and that’s where he finds himself on the few afternoons he has off. Mateo gets invited to some parties here and there. The theatre kids are incestuous and thirsty. If someone drags him to the closet for seven minutes in heaven, no one mentions on Monday that seven turned into thirty eight. It’s a well kept secret among the theatre crowd that some hockey players are very generous.

Meanwhile, Mateo realizes that he’s not the only hockey player that falls into closets with people. He meets a tall blond on a roadie who has an affinity for biting. They don’t exchange numbers until after the fourth or fifth time they hook up. When the guys on his team notice him texting someone whose contact is _Cariño_ for months, they start chirping him about having a secret puck bunny on the side. He shrugs every time. He tries not to think about how weird it is to be known as “M” on someone else’s phone.

He skips out on Prom, claiming he’s going to pregame it so hard the teachers will never let him through the door. Instead, he goes to a friend’s anti-prom. No one bats an eyelash when his makeup looks better than anyone else in there. He does get drunk enough not to go to real Prom.

He gets drafted, and his boyfriend doesn’t. For some reason, that makes everything more real. Adam had talked about playing for another season in juniors and seeing what happens. But even if he got drafted, they’d never have time for each other.

He calls Adam the day after the draft.

“I’m sorry, this looks like the number of a future NHL star, how’d you get my digits?”

Perry snorts, “funny.”

“That’s what I’m here for, babe,” he jokes. “You rake in that dough, and I work on my acting career.”

Perry sighs. “Birker—”  

“Oh no,” he says, “you never call me that.”

“I...fuck, you know I like you a lot,” Perry says.

“Same...”

They say nothing for a while.

Finally, Adam groans. “Is it...because I didn’t go this year?”

“No, I swear.” Perry clenches his fist tight. “I just don’t wanna be one of those shitty people who works so hard that they neglect who they’re dating.”

“Alright,” Adam concedes. “I don’t like it, but I’ll respect you.”

“Thank you,” he says gratefully. “You’re one in a million, you know that?”

“Keep telling me. Might make my pity party better.”

“You’re gonna make someone really happy one day,” he promises.

Adam chuckles acerbically. “I’ll invite you to the wedding.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Perry jokes lightly.

“Bye, Mateo,” he says with resignation. “I hope you have a good life.”

The line goes dead. Perry takes a deep breath. Yea, it was all for the best.

_/.\\_

_Troy passes to Parson. Parson weaves through Kulda and Hainsey. He sees an opening, passing back to Troy—who oh! Did you see the finesse in that shot? It floated right past Pavelec’s arm._

_/.\\_    

December 2009

Christmas comes too quickly. The Aces get three days off, and Jeff counts his blessings. He doesn’t want to see Natalie and Robert, but he doesn’t want to go to Ocean City either. Kent must be psychic, or picking up on how little Jeff’s mentioned his family, because he invites him to come celebrate Christmas with his family.

“Nothing says ‘good time’ like a Mexican family Navidad,” he proclaims proudly.

Jeff tries not to laugh at the idea of dozens of Parsons chirping the fuck out of him.

“Wait,” Jeff realizes as they’re landing in Laguardia on Christmas eve, “Parson isn’t Mexican.”

“No doi, Jeffery,” Kent says, rolling his eyes. “My family’s last name is Vasquez.”

Jeff squints. “Then why—”

“My dad’s last name,” Kent says simply. “It seemed easier to get by in hockey being white passing with a name like Kent Parson.”

“Yea, your name is mega fucking white,” Jeff agrees. “I should chirp you more about that. Kent’s so prep.”

Kent chuckles. “What can I say? I’m attached to being called Kenny. Kent’s just the old man name I have to grow into.”

Jeff wants to ask what happened to his dad. But from experience, he knows that when someone doesn’t bring up a relative, it’s best to let those mysteries lie dormant. Kent’s family turns out to be every bit as loud and friendly as he assumed they would. Kent’s younger sister Izzy asks him a million questions about the more attractive vets on the team. Kent’s mom asks them both how they’re liking Vegas, and are they eating enough on those diet plans?

“Yea, ma, I swear they won’t let us starve,” Kent says.

“You never know with those west coast health nuts, bebe,” she argues. “I just want to make sure they don’t neglect my poor baby boy.”

“Ma, I’m eighteen,” he protests.

“And you’ll be my son until the end of time,” she says with a quirked brow. “Your point?”

“I’m not a baby,” he whines.

His mother glares at him for a moment before opening her arms. “Come here, you haven’t hugged your mother enough today.”

Despite some resistance, Kent complies. Jeff and Izzy bond over snickering at his expense.

Dinner is a lively affair. There aren’t a lot of seats at the dinner table, but there are chairs and cushions and lots of rug space. Jeff sits with some of Kent’s younger cousins as they ask about how strong and fast he is (apparently, they didn’t believe Kent when he said he plays with real athletes now).

It’s busy and chaotic in a way Jeff’s never gotten to experience before. It’s good different. Still, it leaves an ache in his chest wondering where else he could be spending Christmas Eve.

_/.\\_

March 2009

For Jeff’s eighteenth birthday, Trish flies to Michigan to watch one of his games and to take him out for dinner. It’s nice, but Trish keeps giving him that look. The sad, resigned one that’s only for when he complains about his parents. He shudders, wondering if something bad happened to them.

She takes him back to her hotel room, and they watch movies for a while like they normally do when he’s home. Home. It’s an oddly ubiquitous term for anywhere Jeff can get comfortable for more than five minutes. He doesn’t think of Princeton as home much anymore. He’d like to, but his parents have been traveling more ever since he left home for hockey. It doesn’t feel like his anymore, just like a place temporarily occupying some of his childhood memories and valuables.

“Baby, we need to talk,” she starts at the end of watching _Juno_.

Jeff’s head is currently pillowed in Trish’s lap. He stares at her quizzically. Part of him wonders if she’s going to tell him his parents were in a horrible accident. He feels bad that the thought doesn’t wrench his gut as much as it should.

“Yeah?”

“I promised your parents a long time ago that I would hold off talking to you about this,” Trish says carefully. “But you’re an adult now, you deserve to know.”

“Know what—”

“You’re adopted,” she cuts him off.

He gapes. “What? No I’m not.”

“Yes, you are,” she insists. “Your parents took you in when you were about six months old.”

He sits up, staring at her like she’s grown a second head. “Why are you telling me this?”

She sighs, rubbing her temple. “Because, baby, I’ve been wanting to tell you since the day you were eight and they sent you back to me.”

That’s when it hits him. Because yea, maybe his parents weren’t warm and sympathetic. But he always had Trish and Josh. They taught him about life and love. They were the first ones he thought of when he didn’t know what to do and needed help or comfort. He feels something wet trail down his cheek.

“All this time,” he says through clenched teeth. “You couldn’t’ve told me once?”

“Baby—”

He bites back a laugh. “Every time I told you how shitty they were? How much I wanted them to fucking love me like they should? You fucking defended them. I always thought it was because you wanted me to love them.”

“Of course I did, that’s exactly—”

“But they don’t,” he interrupts. “They don’t give a shit about what I do or where I go. I’m in fucking Michigan trying to get drafted into a hell sport.”

Trish stares at him, eyes watering.

“Because at least then, somebody might pay attention to me,” he says, “might love me.”

“Baby, it’s not like that,” she protests. “They do love you. I love you. Joshy saves every cent he can in case you ever need it. We all love you.”

“You could’ve taken me back whenever,” he shouts. “Why didn’t you?”

“It’s adoption, Jeffrey,” she snaps. “I couldn’t just say ‘oh look I’m not broke and eighteen anymore, can I have my boy you’ve been raising for the better part of a decade back now?’”     

He shakes his head mournfully. “I gotta go.”

“Baby,” she says as he storms to the door.

Jeff looks back at her one last time. “I can’t.”

“I love you. I love you. I. Love. You,” she insists through tears.

“I know,” he admits quietly before closing the door behind him.

_/.\\_

December 2009

It’s around nine when the Christmas party dies down and Jeff can successfully sneak into Kent’s room. He sits on the bed, staring at the contact book on his phone for a while. He thinks about hitting call, but decides against it.

When Kent comes bustling in, chirping him about wooing his family over well, Jeff doesn’t bother to move. He’s still staring at his phone listlessly. Kent leans over his shoulder, clicking his tongue. The contact is a question mark and a picture of him and Trish two summers ago on Josh’s boat.

“She’s pretty.”

Jeff snorts. “She’ll like you for saying that.”

“Yea?” Kent sits across from him on the bed. “Do I get to meet her any time soon?”

“I don’t know,” Jeff admits. “Probably. Maybe. It’s—”

“Complicated?” Kent offers.

“Basically,” he says.

Kent bites his lip, nodding. “Is it so complicated that you wouldn’t see her if you could?”

“Nah, not anymore,” he thinks out loud. “It was kinda shitty around April. It’s better now.”

He hears Kent clap his hands. The springs of his bed groan as he jumps off.  “Alrighty, let’s go.”

Jeff’s neck snaps so hard it cracks and strains. “What?”

“You heard me, Jersey boy,” Kent chirps. “How far away does she live?”

“Ocean City,” Jeff says with resignation.

“That’s what? Three hours south?”

“Pretty much.”

Kent nods. “Ma, I’m taking the car. Be back tomorrow.”

“What?” Jeff asks as he can hear Kent’s mom shouting in the distance.

“C’mon, Jeff,” he says as he throws on his winter coat. “Time for a little Christmas miracle.”

After some arguing between Kent and his mom, they’re off. Kent insists on driving despite never driving south of New York before. Jeff drums this fingers on the center console the entire time there. He gives Kent anxious directions here and there.

“What’s got you so worked up?” Kent asks.

“I’m just worried,” Jeff says.

“About what?”

“Her being so pissed she doesn’t talk to me,” he admits. “I gave her the cold shoulder for like most of the year.”

“Hey,” Kent nudges him gently. “If she really cares about you, it won’t matter.”

Jeff knows he has a point. Still, his stomach twists with how angry and hurt she could be. He’d been shitty to her all year. Maybe he didn’t deserve her love. She’d taught him better than this.

When Kent parks in front of Trish’s house, Jeff practically falls out of the car, racing to the front door. He pounds on the door furiously. It takes a minute and some shouting for a light to turn on. Trish opens the door in a bathrobe not much later.

“Jeffery Charles Troy, it is midnight,” she stammers. “What on earth do you have to say for yourself?”

He thinks he should make a joke about it better being late than never, or maybe that he’s just early.

But instead, he just says, “Hi, mom.”

Trish blinks. Then she smiles at him brighter than the day he got his first goal in a peewee game. It clenches his heart. Maybe things weren’t simple, but love could be. He wanted her to love him as much as she always had. After all, she raised him to be a sap.

She reaches out to hug him tightly.

“Hi baby, welcome home.”  


	3. Winter

_ Chipchura advances down the ice. He’s intercepted by Smith who redirects it to Parson. He—  oh perfect spinorama, passes off to Troy who—oh top shelf on McElhinney!      _

_/.\\_ 

January 2010

They lose 3 to 5 against the Blackhawks. Afterward, Nathan is trying to ignore the not too subtle complaints from the older players. There’s a lot of chattering about ‘peewee hockey players’ and ‘inexperienced, self entitled douchebags’. It makes him smirk mirthlessly. Yea, a bunch of white guys talking about how the brown guys screwed them over. It’s really original of them. 

“Enough,” Smithy commands after a few minutes. “We’ll watch tape later. It’s not your job to tell your teammates what they’re doing wrong.” 

The room settles considerably. But Nathan can see the way some of the guys are glaring at Kent for that shot he missed in the second period. As Kent unlaces his skates, he keeps his face neutral. 

Sometimes, Nathan wonders how all this scapegoating and blatant harassment never gets to him. 

_/.\\_ 

Truth be told, Kent’s always hated golf. Golf is mainly occupied by rich white men who like to take up office hours to pat themselves on the back for making a boring sport look valuable to business partners. Golf is also the sort of boring old man sport that caught Jack’s eye on their off days. He’d drag Kent across all eighteen holes, saying not much besides tips on how Kent could improve his game and the latest political documentary he caught the night before. 

It’s like they weren’t even teenagers. 

So considering the sheer number of fishing and hiking trips West has imposed on him and the other rookies since they got to Vegas, Kent figured it was only a matter of time until they ended up on a golf course. 

He did not, however, expect West to wake them up early one morning announcing they were riding to the Grand Canyon. For some reason, the idea of motorcycling didn’t fully click in Kent’s mind until West was asking him and Jeff who wanted to ride with him.

“Someone’s got to take the car anyway. So no pressure, ” West adds. 

“I’ll drive,” Jeff announces tiredly. He’s trudging out the door when Goose and Perry come bustling in. 

“Here,” Perry says so loudly that Jeff flinches. “Sorry, man, didn’t see you there.” 

“I call Smithy’s bike,” Goose says.

Perry crinkles his nose. “Why?”

“I trust him the most not to kill me,” he mutters. 

“Fuck that, Nathan. I’ll bet you a hundred that Fish doesn’t kill me,” Perry challenges. 

“Enough of that,” West says as he’s pushing them all out the door. “Let’s get on the road before it gets too hot. Parse, you riding with me or Swoops?”

“You,” he decides suddenly. “Never been on a bike before.” 

West grins slightly, waving him to follow. Apparently he’s been planning this for a while, because he’s got jackets and helmets for all four of them. 

“Lean from the waist when I do,” West explains before he lets Kent hop on. “Keep your head in line with me. When I slow down, hold onto the gas tank so you don’t slide into me. When I accelerate, hold onto the strap. You can hold onto me, but tap my shoulder if I’m going too fast. Don’t just squeeze the fuck out of me.” 

“And I want you to go faster?” Kent asks. 

West laughs. “Kid, if that happens, tap my right leg.” 

“Gotcha.” 

“Won’t happen, though,” West says. 

“We’ll see,” Kent chirps. 

It turns out not to happen, because West goes plenty fast. They’re headed down shortly after that. It’s a thrill to Kent. The air whirs loudly around his helmet. The pavement zooms by so quickly he can hardly notice it. It takes him a few slip ups to get used to keeping his head in line with West. But when he does, he learns to appreciate what he can see. 

The mountains and stretches of desert are breathtaking. The sun hasn’t risen yet. They’re riding through a bizarre twilight where Vegas isn’t the center of their universe. There’s no press to talk to or hands to shake. He doesn’t have to think about how much better Jack would be with biting his tongue in front of Coach Price. He’d probably be Price’s golden boy instead of being threatened to bump back down to the third line every other week for back talking. 

There’s nothing tying him to Vegas and responsibilities and doing the Zimmermanns proud right now. He’s not promising or dedicated or any fifteen cent word that reporters used to associate with Jack but now saddle on him. He’s not wishing that he knew if Jack even misses him. If he’s ever thought of responding to any of his messages. 

He’s none of those things right now. 

He’s Kent Vincente Parson. He’s eighteen years old and riding on the back of a friend’s motorcycle. He’s got a pretty awesome life, all things considered. 

Maybe if he can just breathe in the fresh morning air a little deeper, he’ll remember that long enough to be happy. Really, truly inexplicably happy. 

_/.\\_ 

November 2008

They lose by one in the third period. The opposing team just barely makes it out on top after a six-minute rally. By the time that play is over, there are two minutes left, and their team is dead tired. Kent doesn’t hold it against them as he gives his end of the game pep talk to the boys. Jack, however, remains silent. 

He doesn’t speak as he and Kent shower silently next to each other. Kent watches him turn the heat all the way up. He cringes when he thinks about how much it must hurt. He stares at the communal shower tiles lifelessly. Kent hums some Fall Out Boy under his breath to distract himself. He doesn’t want to start thinking about what to say, because he isn’t sure what Jack’s thinking. If he gets worked up about how to react and Jack pulls a one eighty on him, it’ll be that much harder to respond.    
He’s trying to get it. He’s trying to learn. Because neither of them comes out smiling when one of them overreacts in a disagreement. He keeps humming and trying to think about the good things to tell Jack, the positives. Normally, Jack’s his rock on a hard day. 

Tonight, it’s like they don’t even know each other.

Kent leaves the shower without a second glance. He can’t let Jack see him break his composure. He has to be the strong one, right? That’s what his useless neurotypical ass is good for, anyway. Jack remains there until Kent’s dressed and his hair is so dry he thinks he could walk home if needed. He peeks into the shower. Jack’s still standing there. He sighs; it’s one of those days. 

He gently tugs Jack away from the water so he doesn’t get hypothermia, leading him to the stalls. Jack follows without much protest. He sits on the bench as Kent pulls a shirt over his head. Jack adjusts it and accepts underwear without looking away from the ground. 

Kent hears Jack gasp. But then he takes in a long deep breath. He does this again. Good, Kent thinks. He’s not hyperventilating; that’s progress. Jack slips his underwear on, and a pair of pants appears next to him. He puts on socks, shoes, and a coat with clinical precision.

Kent pulls him off the bench. He silently leads them to Jack’s car. He knows better than to try to start a conversation before Jack’s gotten home. So he doesn’t. Jack automatically goes to the passenger’s side. Kent doesn’t protest. He doubts Jack could or would want to drive at them moment. Kent puts Kings of Leon on low as he puts the car in reverse. 

“You did great tonight,” Kent murmurs as he parks in the Zimmermann’s driveway.

Jack snorts, unconvinced.

Kent frowns, reaching over to squeeze Jack’s shoulder. Jack shrugs him off. He tries to not feel hurt. This is typical Jack. He doesn’t do comfort when he’s worked up. He thinks it makes him weak, no matter how many times Kent tells him it’s ok. Everyone needs people. 

“C’mon, Zimms,” he  groans as he nudges Jack gently. “Don’t be like that. You were amazing.”

Jack stares at him for a moment. “You were terrible.”

“Uh,” Kent blushes. He can’t let Jack get under his skin. “I got two assists, babe.”

“The reason you didn’t get three is you were slow as shit, Parse. Maybe get your head out of your ass and we could win occasionally, eh?”

“You don’t really think I’m the reason we lost,” Kent said. Well, there goes his plan to not let Jack pick a fight. 

“Yes, I do.” Jack opens the car door and slams it shut to indicate he’s done with the conversation.

Kent stares in shock as his eyes trail after him. He slumps against the steering wheel, banging his head lightly. He’s trying to be better. He’s trying to fight less, listen more. He’s tried giving Jack more space, less space. It doesn’t matter. Because when Jack’s convinced that Kent’s fucked up, Kent’s fucked up. 

Sometimes he doesn’t want to listen to that. But the more Jack tells him what a fuck up he is, the more inclined he is to believe it. Because Jack is everything. Jack is the best hockey player, the best guy, and the best boyfriend Kent has ever had. And for some insane reason, he decides every single day that he still wants Kent, loves him even. 

So Kent swallows his pride. It isn’t about Jack trying to hurt his feelings. He’s looking out for the entire team. He’s got the weight of the hockey world on his shoulders. Kent’s gotta try harder to make it up to him. Jack deserves better. He deserves the world and more. Kent just has to find a way to make that possible. 

He takes a few deep breaths, trying to figure out how to not mess this up too. Inevitably, his plan isn’t much of a plan. At some point, he trudges through the house by himself. Bob and Alicia stop him to chat, ask how the game was. He gives them the PG version and keeps it light enough that they’re not too worried about Jack. The last thing he wants is for them to think he’s not doing a good enough job being their son’s second. He makes excuses for Jack and goes upstairs quietly. 

The door to Jack’s room creaks as he opens it. Kent flinches at how loud it is. He tries to make up for it by shuffling softly. Jack doesn’t bother to lift his head from his pillow to glare angrily at him, so he counts it as a win. The mattress dips as Kent situates himself on his usual side of the bed. He shifts around for a few seconds behind Jack.

“Stop that,” Jack snaps.

He freezes. He takes a long breath, hoping he knows what he’s doing. 

Eventually, he wraps an arm around Jack. “I’m sorry,” Kent whispers into his ear. “I’ll do better next time.” 

The tension in his shoulders softens as Kent pulls him in closer. Kent shudders in relief. No fighting today, then. No shouting and, hopefully, no more berating. Apparently he can only take so much criticism from Jack until he screams or cries. He’s learning to take it better. 

“Okay,” Jack relents.

“Yeah?” Kent tries to stop himself from smiling. He feels like an idiot for getting his hopes up. He’s not trying to be patronizing or anything. He’s just relieved Jack’s willing to forgive him. 

“We’ll practice first thing in the morning, eh?” Jack offers. “Get you in draft shape.”

Kent clings to him. He’s offering Kent a lifeline. He has to take it.  “Okay.”

Jack scoots closer into Kent’s arms. Kent holds him tight, his eyelids getting heavier as he relaxes. Jack is everything to him. He wants every second Jack will give him to mean something. Sometimes he wonders if he’s really cut out for the NHL. But if Jack believes in him, that’s all he really needs. He’ll do anything to keep them going, both of them. 

Sometimes it’s hard to just sit and listen to Jack. But when he does, it works out in the end. Sometimes, Jack feels like the only person in the world who gets him. 

_/.\\_ 

_ Chopra, Chopra still with it. Passes it to Parson. Back to—oh! Off the pipe and behind the goalie. Las Vegas wins it in overtime.  _

_/.\\_ 

January 2010

Nathan read a lot of books on psychology when he was sixteen. He treated it like a homework assignment—learn how to cope logically before trying to do it emotionally. He spent most of that year with his nose buried in books or his feet on the ice. 

So he’s learned a few things since then. One, stages of grief aren’t linear. They’re not an easy path to recovery and acceptance. They’re stages of a cycle. Anyone can float between them without any rhyme or reason. Recovery is slow and frustrating, but happens eventually. Two, depression can be hereditary. Three, self care means waking up some mornings and getting out of bed even if every inch of his body is screaming for him not to. 

He groans when his alarm goes off, already knowing it’s just one of those days. He’s marginally thankful that they’re currently in Tampa Bay; this is the last place he’d want to get stuck in if the team left without him. They have a game in North Carolina tomorrow, so at least it’s just a traveling day. 

Nathan keeps his shower freezing. He puts on his headphones the second his suit is on and his tie is straight. He blasts The Wonder Years and closes his eyes as much as possible during team breakfast. They file onto the bus, and he sighs in relief when he gets a window seat. 

Perry’s at least noticed something’s up and has been decent to give him his space. He thinks he drifts off for a while. That is, until someone crash lands into the seat next to him. He cracks an eyelid open when the guy won’t stop poking him. It’s Parse. Somehow, he’s not surprised. 

He takes a headphone out, glaring. “What?” 

“We’re watching something,” Kent declares as he waves his hand in front of his laptop. “Your choice, but I didn’t pack that many DVDs.” 

“Um, thanks—”

“You’re welcome,” Kent says before Nathan can turn him down. “I got  _ Halloween, Texas Chainsaw Massacre, They Live, _ and _ She’s All That _ .” 

Nathan holds back a laugh. “So classic horror or—”

“A true feat of 90s popular culture,” Kent insists. 

Nathan stares at him incredulously. Partly because he can’t believe how strange Kent’s taste is in...everything. But also because clearly, he’s not going to let up. He really wants to be alone right now. Then again, he knows isolating himself isn’t the greatest idea. And there’s not much effort involved in just watching something while they’re stuck in a bus for another six or so hours. 

“ _ She’s All That _ ,” he decides. “And I’ll shove your ass onto the floor if you swap it for  _ Halloween _ .”

“That was one time,” Kent protests. 

“Try again,” he says. 

“That was— “ Kent bites his lip. “Fuck, four? times? Shit, fine, point taken. Won’t happen this time, swear.”

Nathan eyes him carefully. He sighs, “...fine.” 

They sit back. At some point, Nathan ends up using Kent’s shoulder as a pillow. He’s kept awake by Kent’s light laughter every couple of minutes (or seconds). It’s astounding how the humor is still fresh for him, as if he wasn’t just watching it two days ago in Houston with Swoops. Nathan can appreciate the quiet commentary, though. It’s not like Kent’s trying to engage him a huge discussion, just reminding him that he’s still there. 

Kent doesn’t ask if he wants to watch something after that. He just sits there, sketching, with Nathan looking on quietly. At some point, he starts drawing geese. Nathan tries not to chuckle. He can’t tell if he’s being chirped, admired, or both. 

The bus arrives in North Carolina just in time for dinner. After everything’s been said and done, Nathan falls onto his hotel room bed. He’s ready to just sleep. He can afford to do that today. Tomorrow, he’ll be another semi functioning member of society. 

Of course, that seems to go out the window when Perry answers the door for Kent on his way out for the night. He lies down on the other side of Nathan’s bed, staring at the ceiling with him. 

“What are we looking at?” Kent asks finally. 

“Nothing,” he says. 

“Ok.”

“What do you want?” It comes out more resigned and less frustrated than he intends. 

He doesn’t respond. Nathan looks over at Kent, who’s just...staring at him. His eyes are a black hole that Nathan thinks he couldn’t get free of if he tried. Kent rolls closer so they’re shoulder to shoulder. He’s turned to Nathan, but he’s fixated on the collar of his shirt. 

“Just wanted to know what’cha need,” Kent says. 

He makes a confused grunt. 

Kent chuckles. “No bullshit? Um, I guess I have a sixth sense for when someone’s having a really shitty day.” 

He squeezes his eyes shut so tight they could rip. He hears Kent chuckle somberly. 

“No matter how good they are at hiding it,” Kent adds. 

Nathan lets out a puff of air. “You got me.” 

“That’s not the point,” he argues. 

“Then what is?”

“That bad days get worse when you just let ‘em happen.” 

“Ok, I’ll bite,” Nathan says. “What’s your plan?”

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Not a chance,” he says without a thought. “Not today, at least.” 

He feels Kent nod. “Well then, plan B it is. C’mon.” 

Kent pulls for him to stand up. 

“Where are we going?”

“Tattoo parlor on the other side of town,” Kent explains. 

Nathan balks. “What? Why?” 

Kent smirks mischievously. “What? You thought I was drawing that fucking constellation all day for nothing?” 

It occurs to Nathan that the last few sketches Kent did all had the stars for Cygnus almost perfectly aligned. 

“No,” Nathan says quietly. “What the fuck, Parse? Why would I get a tattoo now of all times?” 

“Because we’re young and make shitty mistakes,” he jokes. But then he straightens his back and face a bit. “Seriously, Nathan. I know you miss her. Fuck, I get it, okay? I just—want you to do something for yourself.” 

Nathan shoulders sag. 

Kent continues, “You fucking love the last tat you got for her. What’s one more?” 

He wants to say that grief isn’t that simple. It’s a fucking whirlpool of emotions and getting better only to get a lot worse. But something about the way Kent pleads with him, the way he shuts down harder than Nathan ever could after every singly roadie, makes him think that it isn’t just about him. Maybe, sometimes grief is so much that a person would rather patch someone else up before licking their own wounds. 

Nathan clenches his fists, already regretting this. “I’m not getting a tattoo by myself.” 

Kent smirks, bringing all the warmth back to his face. “No worries, I got a few ideas to fuck around with.” 

He rolls his eyes. “Come on, let’s go before we get in even more trouble.” 

Kent laughs as they head out the door. 

“Hey Goose?”

“Yea?” 

“Happy Birthday, man,” Kent says. 

Nathan frowns. Of course he forgot, again. “Thanks.” 

_/.\\_ 

February 2007

They cremate her on a Thursday. Nathan’s parents scatter her ashes at dusk in her favorite park. It’s where she went everyday to star gaze when they were younger. He’s sixteen. Nehal is dead. There’s nothing in the world that could change that. 

Her roommate said she’d been acting off for months. The day before she was cheerful, full of energy. It was like she was a new person. Her suicide note didn’t provide much insight. It was mostly a long, jumbled rant about how nothing made sense anymore. She didn’t make sense anymore. What was the point of going around in endless circles around the sun if every day was more miserable than the last? 

She went on like that for pages. 

Nathan would later figure out that meant she’d been on an upswing. Maybe she’d felt that way for months, years even. But it was the first time she’d had enough energy to do anything about it. So she took it. 

He watches as his parents scatter her ashes in an open field. He thinks maybe she’ll get an undisturbed view of the stars now. Maybe she’ll fly higher than the clouds, as far as the Milky Way will take her. Maybe she’ll come back soon, as something even lovelier than she was in this life. Maybe she’ll be Cygnus, a swan. 

Nathan shakes his head, tears welling up in his eyes again. He feels like he’s just bullshitting himself. 

He goes to sleep that night thinking about her bright smile. He hears someone murmuring  _ dummy _ in the back of his consciousness. He thinks maybe in the morning he’ll deal with all of the thoughts swimming around in his head. He’ll be able to think straight and move on. 

The next morning, he can already tell that he was so very wrong. 

_/.\\_ 

_ There they go, Troy with Parson on the wing as they work their way up through center.  Here’s Jeff Troy—drop pass, Parson has to pick it up, and he scores!   _

_/.\\_ 

February 2010 

They’re in Arizona coming off a win. Nathan’s reading a book in the bed next to Perry. And Perry’s...not really sure what he’s doing right now. He went down another rabbit hole while browsing some stuff. He’s been trying to read Queer Theory in his spare time. Partly because he thinks he would’ve chosen a soft science if he’d gone to college. But the longer he’s in Vegas, the more he sees people who don’t care about appearances and just live the way they want, the more he wishes he could do that. The more he wonders what he’s doing wrong that he doesn’t already feel that way. 

He keeps thinking maybe it’s not enough to know he’s pan. Maybe there’s something different out there. Something he’s missing because he doesn’t know it exists. He just has to keep looking until the unrest he feels all the time. 

“Perry,” he hears Nathan say. 

Perry blinks, pulling himself out of his thoughts. “Yea, what’s up?” 

Nathan eyes him carefully. “You tell me. You’ve been out of it all night.” 

He shrugs. “I don’t know.” 

Nathan quirks a brow, forming a thin line with his lips. 

Perry slumps down against the headboard of his bed. He’s terrible at hiding things from Nathan. 

“I guess…” Perry takes a deep breath. “I just thought I’d have shit figured out by now you know?” 

Nathan gets up, taking a seat on the far side of Perry’s bed. 

Meanwhile, Perry keeps rambling. “When I was a younger people would call me effeminate or sensitive or shit like that. Someone said ‘maybe you’re gay’ and I was like ‘cool, that makes sense’.”

“Only it didn’t. And I thought ‘ok I’m bi’ and then ‘ok I’m pan’. I thought ‘maybe it’s puberty, no one likes that shit.’ My mom kept saying no one’s ready for it so I just...accepted that I didn’t feel right.”

Perry shifts, rocking forward a little. He feels like his brain might explode from all this word vomiting.

“People call me shit like ‘mister’ o ‘señor’, and I fucking hate it. I thought maybe it’s because I’m not really an adult yet. Maybe when I have sex or when I get a job or when I’m living on my own. But I’m in a fucking hotel room in Arizona. I got Teresa a trainer and a skating coach for Christmas. I fucked a guy last night. I should be happy.” 

Nathan nods patiently. “What’s the problem?”

The epiphany hits him suddenly. “I don’t want to be a man,” he says. “I don’t know what I am. But that’s not me.”

Nathan’s quiet for a moment. Then he says, “Can I hug you?” 

Perry closes his eyes, clenching his left hand that’s draped over the side of the bed. “Fuck yes, please.” 

Nathan pulls him close to his chest. Perry buries his face into Nathan’s shoulder, trying not to lose it from sheer emotional exhaustion. He’s spent months and months trying everything to feel more normal, more real even. 

“Perry?” Nathan says when his sobs have devolved into hiccups. 

“Yeah?” 

“You’re still you,” he says softly. “Everyone else can suck it. You’re you and you’re perfect.” 

Perry clings to him tighter. He nods. It sounds right in his ears. Not manly, not feminine, just perfect. Just perfectly himself.

“Thanks.” 


	4. Spring

 

_ Now five on four, Parson is in...with a backhanded pass! Score! It’s Troy. Goal, and they’re on the board.  _

_/.\\_ 

Unfortunately, this is not the first time Nathan’s gotten lost somewhere because he was trying to be social and friendly. When some puck bunnies approached him and Swoops after their loss against San Jose, offering to cheer them up, Nathan said sure because they seemed lowkey. 

Of course, Nathan can be a monumentally terrible judge of character, and that seems to be the case, because they’re half naked, walking past Fisherman’s Wharf at half past midnight. 

“I thought they said they wanted to show us a good time,” Swoops shouts exasperatedly, clutching his suit and cellphone in his hands. 

“I think they said why don’t we show you where the real parties are at,” Nathan says. 

“I didn’t think that meant a kink party!” 

“We didn’t have to run out of there either,” he counters. 

Swoops glares at him. “I also didn’t know I was going to have to turn down being tied up in cheap ropes tonight!” 

“Yea, that was weird…Come to think of it, they didn’t tell us about any rules or hardlines. They didn’t even ask us what we’re into…”

Swoops stops walking. It takes Nathan a moment to turn around to see his confused stare. 

“Did—did we almost get kidnapped?” Swoops asks. 

“I honestly have no clue,” he admits.   

“We almost got kidnapped,” Swoops squawks. 

“Don’t be dramatic,” 

Swoops points at him furiously. “You owe me a fucking hand job.”

“What? Why?”

“You said there’d be hot guys. Well, pay up, pal.” 

Nathan feels himself blush before dissolving into uncontrollable laughter. “You’ve got zero game.”

“I’m serious!” 

“Good thing Parse is just as shitty at flirting as you are,” Nathan says with a smirk. 

It’s Swoops’ turn to blush furiously. “Shut up,” he mumbles. 

Nathan slings an arm around his shoulder as they keep walking. “Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty of time to practice when we get back to the hotel... as soon as we find a taxi. ”

“I’m still gonna get you back for this,” Swoops says. 

He claps Swoops’ back. “Tell you what, next time I help you get laid, I’ll make sure you probably won’t get kidnapped.” 

“Least you could do,” Swoops mutters bitterly. 

_/.\\_ 

_ Here’s the Aces with West closing in...score!  _

_/.\\_ 

Perry takes a deep breath before knocking on Kent’s bedroom. It’s the middle of March, and they have a night off, which is honestly just what Perry needs right now. He needs some clarity. Or at least, someone to tell him he’s not completely wrong. Kent’s the only person he can ask. 

“Come in,” Kent shouts. 

Hesitantly, Perry turns the knob, poking his head into the room. Kent’s sitting at the end of his bed, casually sketching something as Panic! At the Disco plays softly from his computer. 

“Oye, tienes tiempo para hablar?”

“Si, por cierto,” Kent says. 

He waves Perry closer. Perry tentatively sits in the swivel chair in front of Kent’s desk. He rests one of his feet in the seat of the chair, using his knee as a chin rest. Perry stares nervously at Kent’s sketch book for a minute. He’s working on sketches of some guy. They’re not very good, but Perry’s known Kent for long enough to know it’s Jack. It’s one of those days. 

Perry starts to doubt himself. Maybe this isn’t the right time. Maybe—  

“Qué te angustia?” Kent asks, interrupting Perry’s anxious musings.

He sighs. “Comó sabías que eras transgénero?”

Kent balks. “What? Why?”

Perry opens his mouth to speak, but Kent hold a finger up to shush him. 

“We’re not doing this in Spanish, Per,” he says. “I’m shitty as fuck at speaking.”

“No, you’re not,” Perry argues. 

“I always answer you in English,” Kent points out. “Haven’t you noticed?”

Perry hums. “Well, now I have.” 

Kent snorts playfully. “Alright, c’mon what’s up? You, like, never ask me questions about being trans. Even West asked me if I’m on T.” 

“Isn’t that...invasive?”

“My family’s like a million times worse,” he admits. “Love them to fucking tears. But questions means they wanna learn. Anyway...” 

“Seems rough, man. I’m sorry.”

“Per, you’re avoiding my question.”

Perry scrubs his face, brushing back the hair dangling in his face. He isn’t trying to grow it out. He just stopped getting regular haircuts. It’s...nice, and none of the guys chirp him, since hockey values good flow. 

“I just…” Perry starts. “Look, in middle school I was like ‘I’d fucking kill to be a girl.’ But then I got to high school and found that was a thing? Being trans is fucking real—”

“As opposed to?”

“I don’t know, like shitty cross dressing jokes on TV,” Perry says. 

Kent raises an eyebrow quizzically. “We’re finding you better shit to watch.”   

“Whatever,” Perry rolls his eyes as he wraps an arm around his left knee. 

“You were saying?” Kent prompts. 

Perry sighs aggravatedly. “It just didn’t sound right? I don’t want to change...my outside I guess? And sometimes I like being masculine, and I think if I went all in I’d regret it half the time, so what’s the point of trying? I just—how did you fucking know?” 

Kent quirks a brow, clearly amused. He pats the space next to him on the edge of the bed. Perry changes seats accordingly. Kent wraps an arm around him. 

“Per, gender’s like sexuality,” he says. “...Ok...it isn’t exactly like sexuality. But I mean—it’s not one size fits all. It’s a jumbled mess of societal expectations, personal experiences, and yea some hormonal shit. Does it feel like you aren’t cis?”

“I think so…” Perry admits. “But I’m not like—”

“No, don’t talk like that,” Kent stops him. “Don’t compare yourself to any other schmuck out there. You’re Perry. You’re the toughest fucking Texan I’ve ever met.” 

“But…” he supplies. 

“Fuck gender norms. Fuck the idea of gender altogether, if that’s not your style. Fuck the idea that people always know they’re trans. They don’t, Per. Lots of us are just wading through what we know and how we feel.” 

“Really?” he asks hopefully. 

“Fuck, yeah Kent smirks reassuringly. “Not all of us fit into binary gender categories, babe. It’s not about figuring shit out as soon as possible, Per. It’s about finding yourself. That’s some nonlinear lifelong shit right there.” 

“And that’s not weird?”

“No, it’s fucking perfect, Perry,” he says, adding, “just like you.” 

Perry gives him a wobbly smile. Kent leans over, side hugging him really tight. 

“Gracias, Kenny,” he murmurs.

“Anytime, Perry.” Kent rubs circles into his back. “What are best friends for?” 

_/.\\_ 

_ Parson switches with Troy. Anderson comes out of the corner...Parson gone all the way to center ice goes right in! And score! Kent Parson wins it for Las Vegas! 4 - 3 in sudden death! _

_/.\\_ 

He’s dreaming. He has to be, because he’s traipsing through his billet home back Rimouski. He turns around, and Perry’s asking him when they’re going to leave. He says wait a minute, he’s missing something. He climbs the stairs to his room. Only the house shifts as he approaches the door. 

Suddenly, it’s Jack’s front door. Kent doesn’t know how or why he’s there but he’s sure of one thing, it’s the night of the draft. 

His voice catches in his throat as he calls Jack’s name. He thinks he knows what’s on the other side of that door, but he can’t stop himself. His body moves against his will, turning the knob eerily slow.

The room smells like piss cheap beer and sweat. It smells like fresh timbits and maple syrup. The walls are bare. All of Jack’s awards are ripped from the walls and strewn across the floor. Kent walks through the broken glass bare footed. He notices Jack’s favorite puck smashed against one of his framed academic awards. 

His throat tightens so hard that he can’t believe he’s still breathing. A groan comes from behind the bathroom door. Kent’s stomach bottoms out, he steps closer. His mind feels like a haze as he fights the current of building pressure that permeates the air. Who’s he kidding? There is no air. The two feet to the bathroom stretches on for miles. Light around him turns pitch black. Then, sickly green as if the air is vile and toxic. As if he’d die of poison before he could budge enough to do anything.

Jack, he reminds himself. He has to get to Jack. 

The door swings open before he can touch it. Jack’s lying on the floor, having a seizure. Kent hears a scream as he pulls out his phone. It sounds familiar, it sounds like him. He looks up from his ringing phone long enough to catch his face in the mirror. He’s glaring at himself. His eyes look pale and his skin looks dead. 

His reflection mouths something. Kent can’t hear over the rising sounds of his screams. 

“KENT,” someone shouts. 

Suddenly, Kent realizes his eyes are open. He’s sitting up. He’s in his room. 

West is standing in front of him, hair mussed and eyes frantic. Kent stops screaming, inhaling long enough to notice Smithy and Troy standing tensely in the doorway. 

“Can you hear me?” West asks slowly. 

Kent nods, feeling his hands tremble. 

“What’s wrong?” Smithy asks in a calming tone. 

He doesn’t recall until this moment that he had heard what his reflection said. 

“He’s dead,” Kent croaks. “It should’ve been me.” 

He stares at his hands, swearing he can still see Jack’s drool and blood on them. Someone (or some people) wrap arms around him. He hears some mutterings about him being safe and Jack being alive. He doesn’t snap out of it until sometime a few days later, coming in and out of reality. 

He calls Alicia. She doesn’t pick up. 

Just as well, he thinks. He wouldn’t want to talk to him, either. 


	5. Post-Season

April 2007

Kent’s sixteen, and they’re making out in one of the recliners in the Zimmermann’s den. He’s on top of Jack because he likes being dominant and Jack blisses out when there’s enough physical pressure on him. It’s a win win.

Jack squeezes Kent’s ass as his tongue goes deeper into Kent’s mouth. Kent involuntarily chuckles in response.

“Stop it,” Kent mutters amusedly.

“Never,” Jack says.

“Your butt’s nicer, you should should take a squeeze outta that instead,” Kent argues.

“Yours is firmer,” Jack says, reaching for it again, “and conveniently placed.”

A loud throat clearing interrupts their flirting. Their heads turn at once, gawking at Bob and Alicia who are staring expectantly. Kent gulps. This was it. This is how it ends. Either Jack’s going to out him or deny everything or—

“You boys look like you’re having quite the evening,” Alicia says with a glint in her eye and a curve in the corner of her mouth.

Kent opens his mouth to start making excuses, to fix this cluster fuck but—

“Kenny and I are dating,” Jack says calmly.

He feels his eyes bulge of their sockets as he looks back at Jack. He’s staring defiantly at his parents. Kent can feel the way his fingers tremble as Kent squeezes his hand supportingly. They’re not just his parents. They’re the fucking Zimmermanns. They’re the power couple to end all power couples. Maybe they didn’t always (read: ever) raise Jack together, but they were a team nonetheless.   

Jack and Kent’s futures hinged on their reaction. The gravity wasn’t lost on Kent.

Bob hums thoughtfully. “Well, we stole enough dessert from that gala to feed an army. Join us when you’re ready, boys.”

Bob and Alicia walk away with small smiles on their faces. Kent sighs just as Jack buries his head in the crook of Kent’s neck. Kent grips his head carefully as Jack shakes.

“Easy,” Kent murmurs. “I gotcha. You’re ok.”

Jack gets a grip eventually. He still clinging to Kent when he asks, “was that ok?”

“Are you kidding me?” Kent asks. “That was amazing.”

“Yeah?” Jack blinks owlishly as he leans back, assessing the level of Kent’s honesty.

Kent’s breath catches in his throat. He stares at Jack’s eyes as if for the first time. They’re not just glaciers of composer. They’re a sea of swirling ambivalence and tentative hope. Kent thinks he’s never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life.

“Yeah,” he agrees, stroking Jack’s cheek with his thumb. “You’re really fucking amazing.”

_/.\\_

_Here’s a chance...Nathan Chopra for Mateo Perez...for Chopra...for Perez! Oh! That’s hockey, baby! Second goal tonight for Mateo Perez!_

_And with that, the Las Vegas Aces have claimed the last Wild Card slot for the Western Conference._

_/.\\_

April 2010

It’s the fifth game of Round One. The score is tied at zero in the third period. Perry and Nathan have been busting their asses with more ice time than normal because half their vets got injured over the last few games. The Aces were woefully underprepared for the playoffs.

But if they can win this game, and every game after it, they can clinch the series. There’s not much to say if they can’t beat the AVs, however. One of the vets gets called for high sticking while trying to recover the puck.

Fuck, they’re in a power play with ten minutes of the third period. He looks over at Nathan, who’s giving him a determined nod. They’re gonna fight as long as this play goes for. Whatever happens, they gave it their all. Just like they always do.

_/.\\_

_Mueller comes up the side. He’s intercepted by Chopra—oh checked by Mercier. Perez blocks Mercier who makes a drop pass back to Mueller. Chopra resets but oh—too late—the Avalanche score the first point here in the third period._

_/.\\_        

Jeff hangs his head low as as they trudge back to their locker room. At least they didn’t lose their first playoffs run on home ice. He falls flat on his ass into his stall as the other guys continue to file in. Kent’s plopping down next to him, starting his notoriously slow (and intentional) skate unlacing ritual.

There’s some chatter among the older guys. Jeff tries his best to ignore it as he focuses on next season. They weren’t ready for this. It’s really a miracle they got this far with the coaching they have. He thinks about how to rearrange the lines. It shouldn’t be up to a few guys to carry the weight of the team while they’re on the ice. Fuck line hierarchy, they need to be better, together.

“Aw, fuck this bullshit!” second line right wing, Colin Roy shouts.

“Roy, shut up,” Smithy hisses.

“Fuck that,” he shouts. “We were so fucking close, and if it weren’t for the fucking pussy ass peewee brigade, we would’ve won. I’m sick and fucking tired of the rookies getting more ice time than the real players on this team.”

“Roy…” West warns.

“You wanna play babysitter? Be my fucking guest. But not when they cost us the fucking playoffs run in the first fucking round!”

Jeff’s trying not to flinch. He can see Goose and Perry trying just as hard in the corner of his eye. Kent, meanwhile, continues to unlace his skates. Faster now, Jeff notes.

Roy sneers at Kent. “What? Got nothing to say Parson? You’ve always got a fucking mouth on you.”

Kent stands up slowly. He crosses the locker room, standing defiantly in front of him. Roy opens his mouth, but is abruptly silenced by the sound of Kent’s fist connecting with his nose. He stumbles back, getting caught by an assistant coach and trainer.

“You wanna talk about bullshit?” Kent raises his voice. “It’s fucking bullshit that the fucking vets on this team don’t know how to treat new players. It’s fucking shocking that none of you asshats get that we’re on the same fucking team—long enough to treat us like equals.

“We’re not your fucking competition. We’re not new, younger models or whatever white heteronormative bullshit you keep telling yourselves.”   

Kent takes one long look at the other guys in the locker room, his jaw set tight.

“Newsflash, assholes, players don’t win championships. Teams do. The sooner you let go of your fucking pity party, the sooner we get into fighting shape.”

With that, he storms out of the room. Jeff watches the door long after he’s left. He hits the showers, gets dressed, and just hangs out in the stalls. Perry and Goose do the same. Kent comes back over an hour later with his phone clenched in his hands and his eyes red rimmed.

Perry gets up, meeting him halfway. Kent stares straight forward at his chest.

“I fucked up, didn’t I?” he asks quietly.

“Fuck no,” Perry whispers, hugging Kent tightly.

Jeff and Goose look at each other for a moment, getting up to follow suit. Which is how four teenagers end up in a group hug in the middle of a locker room in Denver. They hold each other because it’s been a long season. They tried their best, but they weren’t ready. Jeff thinks there’s a lot of work to do before next year.

Still, they got this far on raw talent alone. They need to be smarter, faster. Who knows what they’ll accomplish when they get their shit together. Jeff chuckles softly.

“What?” Goose asks.

“Someday, every team in this goddamn league is gonna hate our guts,” he says. “Because they won’t know how the fuck to beat us.”

Kent chuckles. “Fuck, yeah, let's knock ‘em dead.”

_/.\\_

It’s the first week of June, and the team has been off for a few weeks now. Nathan had enough time to go back to Toronto for a few weeks to visit him family. His parents weren’t exactly enthused about the Cygnus tattoo he got in North Carolina. He decides not to mention the cactus flower tattoo he’s planning on getting.

Perry’s jumping into the pool of West’s house. Kent’s already in the pool, and Swoops is helping Smithy grilling burgers.

“Nathan, c’mon, get your ass in here,” Perry shouts.

He faints against his lawnchair. “Can’t...walk...too...far,” he groans. He smirks as he hears Perry getting out of the pool.

“Lazy ass motherfucker,” he hears Perry chirp.

Nathan holds out his arms to be carried. Instead of picking him up, Perry sits on him—soaking wet.

“Fine, I’m coming,” he relents. “Get off.”

“Pool can wait, burgers are ready,” Swoops says.

Perry laughs. “Finally.”

“You should be really proud of yourselves for this season,” West tells them once they’re sitting at the patio table. “Forget everything Roy said, we only got as far as we did because of you.”

“You sure?” Swoops asks. “It feels like we didn’t know what we were doing half the time.”

“Price is a piss poor coach, but he knew how to draft for once,” Smithy admits. “If this team has any chance of getting to the Cup, it’s going to be because of you guys.”

“Really?” Nathan asks incredulously.

“Don’t sell yourself short,” West says.

Perry elbows him gently. “We’re fucking awesome, Nathan.”

“Yeah, we’ll get there in no time,” Kent says with a full mouth. He swallows. “And then maybe we’ll get to call the shots. Make this team...less shitty.”

“You mean homophobic,” Smithy says casually.

Nathan freezes.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Kent says, waving his arms. “How’d you—”

“What? You think straight eighteen year old guys talk about Ryan Reynolds as much as you do?” Smithy chirps.  

“He’s got you there,” Swoops agrees.

“Anthony Edwards,” Perry counters.

“Gael Garcia Bernal,” Nathan says.

“Oh fuck that Mr. ‘I would fuck a young Shah Rukh Khan’,” Kent says. “Point is—how long have you and West been a thing?”

Nathan blanches. “What?”

“They’ve been making fucking moon eyes at each other all day,” he says.

“A while,” West says.

“Years,” Smithy clarifies.

Nathan squints. “And you’re telling us now because…”

“You’ve earned our trust,” Smithy admits. “And after how far we got this year, we figured you’ll be sticking around a while.”

“Cool,” Kent nods, taking another bite out of his burger. “We can be one big queer family in the middle of the desert.”

Swoops laughs. “Real smooth, Parse.”

Kent makes a basket shooting motion. “It’s nothing but net, Swoops.”

Nathan snorts, hiding his face in Perry’s shoulder as they both dissolve into laughter. Hockey isn’t the easiest place for a bunch of queer kids. But after a year of being in Vegas, Nathan really feels at home. These are his people. His family.

For what it’s worth, he likes the sound of that.

_/.\\_

“And the Calder Memorial Trophy goes to…” the announcer says, “Kent Parson.”

Kent gawks like an idiot. He gets up to hug his mom and Izzy. Perry, Jeff, and Goose are after them. He walks up to the podium with as much confidence as he can muster.

It’s been a year now since he became a pro player. He still can’t get ahold of Jack. He’s not sure he wants to right now. He still feels like an imposter, someone trying to fill the crevices of the void Jack left behind.

Part of him wonders what’s going to happen in a few days with the draft. How long until Jack’s success and clear talent over Kent shows everyone the lie he’s been weaving? He’s not Jack. But maybe, just for one night, he can pretend to be something he’s not—intelligent and kind hearted.

He accepts the trophy with a bright smile and firm handshake. He pushes back every part of his mind that’s screaming he shouldn’t be here. He already is.

“Uh, this is a huge honor,” he says awkwardly. “I’d like to thank my mom, sister—and my entire extended family for their constant support. All mis tios, abuelos, y primos, I really couldn’t be here without you. I’d like to thank my teammates...Especially Calvin West for letting me move in—and just—never leave. The entire Aces organization coaches, staff, and management for all your guidance and support. And lastly, the city of Las Vegas. Aces fans are some of the best people in the world—you can expect good things coming our way.”

And for one moment, Kent truly believes it. Maybe things aren’t perfect. Maybe he’ll spend another ten years in Vegas, or six months. But as he looks out at the audience, at his friends and family, Kent thinks he could really be something here. Maybe, he could be that knight in shining armor the Aces had been waiting for.  

Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for Year 1! Year 2 will be released on October 14th (palateen's bday in case anyone wanted to know) 
> 
> If you have any questions (kinda like the blog posts CP does and/or akin to the ask-a-wellie days) feel free to ask [on our blog](https://ace-off.tumblr.com/). We might have answers for you <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to polyamorousparson and zombizombi for betaing, as well as summerfrost and shippedgoldstandard for cheer-reading! 
> 
> You can listen to the year one playlist [on spotify.](https://open.spotify.com/user/palateens/playlist/5699UDs0s9I2aNIRpblWfS?si=VzMmf9JbQnulVko3Ozh70g)


End file.
